Seeing Red
by Vivi Dahlin
Summary: After Santana is brutally attacked during the WMHS Halloween festival, her friends band together to help her recover. But just how far will they go to seek vengeance? Sr. Year AU; Faberrittana friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Seeing Red  
><strong>Summary:<strong> When Santana suffers a brutal attack during the WMHS Halloween festival, a deadly plot for revenge is set in motion. Senior Year AU. CONTENT WARNING: Rated M for language & strong violence, including a graphic depiction of rape.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I own nothing other than an original character or two.  
><strong>AN:** This is the first time in a while that I've started posting a story I'm still in the process of writing. So bear with me. The editing might be a little choppy, but I'll try not to take too long between updates. I have no clue how many chapters there will be total. Guess we'll have to wait and see together. I started writing before the premiere, so I won't really be following the current season of the show. With a few minor exceptions (e.g. Quinn's a punk, Santana's back on the Cheerios). Also, this is first and foremost a Santana fic, but Brittany, Quinn, Rachel and Sue will all be featured throughout. And I'll warn you once again, some very bad things happen to some good characters in this fic. _Cosas malas_, people. Please don't think I take any of it lightly, because I do not. And please read and review, it keeps me motivated.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>

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><p>"Hold still."<p>

"But it tickles."

"Do you want them to look like hearts or just rosacea?"

Santana pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh as the brush neared her face again. Goose bumps sprouted along her arms and legs as the bristles swirled over her skin, mixing the red greasepaint into the apples of her cheeks. To keep from fidgeting she grasped the wooden seat below, hands between her thighs, and tucked both feet behind the stool legs. It was an entirely unladylike position, especially since the pleats of her Cheerios skirt didn't provide adequate coverage. But with all the activity in the gymnasium, she doubted anyone would notice. Most of the school got flashes of her Spankies on a regular basis anyway. You couldn't do a cartwheel or back handspring without giving the crowd a little peepshow. Coach Sylvester never came right out and said so, but her insistence that the members of her squad always be dressed in "gender appropriate" attire got the message across loud and clear: Cheerios were eye-candy, expected to flaunt it every chance they had. Santana didn't mind. It made her feel special and powerful being a part of such an elite group. Now that she'd been reinstated to the squad and knew what it was like to navigate the halls of McKinley High without its protection, she wore the uniform with even more pride.

That was why she chose a costume she could blend her uniform into. The hooded cloak matched the school colors so perfectly, it looked like Little Red Riding Hood had been a Titan herself. Its hem rested just above the bottom of Santana's skirt, which was fuller than usual because of the black lacy petticoat underneath. Her knee-high white stockings and shiny Mary Janes added a flirtatious charm to the ensemble. With ribbons securing her hair in pigtails, one beneath either ear, she looked downright adorable. She knew it to be true because everyone at the WMHS Halloween festival had been telling her so all evening. The only drawback was the small wicker basket she'd borrowed from her mother. What seemed like a cute accessory to store candy in turned out to be a receptacle for her friends whose costumes left them without pockets or purses to hold loose belongings. So far the items she'd collected ranged from the mundane—hair barrettes and lip gloss—to the truly bizarre—Rachel Berry's cell phone and a cigar case with a flask attached. The latter was courtesy of Quinn Fabray's father, albeit unknowingly. Misplaced during his post-divorce evacuation of the family residence, the sterling silver container now belonged to his daughter, who had used it to spike the punchbowl the minute Principal Figgins turned his back on the refreshments table. Santana fully supported Quinn's new and improved bad girl image, but there was no way in hell she would take the fall for that little punk. If Russell Fabray's name hadn't been engraved alongside the slender tube, Santana never would have chanced getting caught with it in her possession.

As for Berry's cell phone, the offer to tote it around came from sheer mischief. And maybe some jealousy. Rachel hadn't stopped bragging about the gadget since her fathers bought it for her, and with good reason. Equipped with the latest bells and whistles, it was one of the best phones on the market. Far superior to Santana's. She had every intention of returning it at the end of the night, but not without making a few crank calls and snapping plenty of obscene pictures first.

Heaped inside the basket, a colorful, sequined sash hid the other contents from view. It was just a cheap fabric square from Hobby Lobby, but Santana favored it over everything else she'd accumulated. An hour earlier, Brittany had gotten fed up with trying to keep it knotted around her waist and stuffed it into the basket. Now, large hoop earrings and a paisley headscarf that clashed horribly with her Cheerios uniform were all that remained of the blonde's gypsy costume. The long ends of the scarf grazed Santana's knee as Brittany leaned closer, dabbing the watercolor paintbrush in place several more times. Her radiant blue eyes were distraction enough, but the cluster of cinnamon-colored freckles on her nose was nothing short of mesmerizing. Absorbed in counting each tiny speck, Santana frowned when Brittany stood back to survey her artwork.

"So cute," Brittany said, nodding her approval. She put the brush aside and reached for one of the handheld mirrors that rested on the table amid the plastic color palettes, goopy makeup crayons, and murky glasses of water. "You look like Truly Scrumptious in that doll scene from _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang_. But way hotter. And not scary."

Santana grinned and posed seductively in front of the mirror. On top of being an incredible dancer, Brittany was also a gifted artist. The pink and red hearts that adorned Santana's cheeks rivaled the work of any so-called professional whose booth lined the midway at a theme park or county fair. Yet another quality that made the blonde so appealing. "Never seen it, but I'll take that as a compliment," Santana said.

"Oh, my gosh. Are you serious?" Brittany's eyes widened in shock. "But it's, like, the best movie of all time. After _That Darn Cat!"_

"Didn't see that one, either." Santana shrugged, attempting to look sheepish rather than amused as Brittany continued to gape in horror. She got to her feet and patted Brittany's shoulder, urging her to take a seat on the empty stool.

"How did I not know this already?" Brittany asked, slumping onto the seat and shaking her head forlornly. Before she had even gotten comfortably situated, her misery vanished and she clapped her hands, bouncing with excitement. "I've got it. Tomorrow night you're staying over and we're having a movie marathon. I'll supply the DVDs and popcorn, you can bring the cuddles and sweet lady kisses."

Hoping the face paint masked the heat she felt climbing up her neck, Santana kept a neutral expression. During summer break she and Brittany had snuggled their way through an inordinate amount of cheesy 1980's movies, but the contact had been light, innocent. When the school year began, bringing with it the scrutiny of peers and renewing Santana's pact with Dave Karofsky, her relationship with Brittany once again became platonic. There was more at stake—for both of them—this semester, their status as popular cheerleaders tenuous at best. Even Brittany comprehended that one misstep would likely get them kicked off the squad for good. Still, something about the Halloween festival had affected them this evening, making them a little reckless, a little less guarded. Maybe it was the paper cups full of Hawaiian Punch and vodka from Judy Fabray's liquor cabinet; or maybe the chilly October air that, before it drove the games and other festivities indoors, made the girls huddle together in the quad, relying on each others' body heat for warmth. Whatever the reason, Santana didn't want the night or the sense of freedom to end. She almost didn't care who found out about her feelings for Brittany.

"It's a date," Santana said, meeting the blonde's gaze as she spoke. She held it for a moment, pleased to find blue eyes looking back with just as intently as her own. Flourishing a pink makeup crayon, one of the few that hadn't been smooshed flat at the tip, she queried, "Butterflies or rainbows?"

"That's such a hard decision." Folding one arm underneath the other, Brittany tapped her fingers against the side of her head, resembling Winnie the Pooh_. Think, think, think_. "Can I have a rainbow here and a butterfly there?" She pointed to either cheek and flashed a wide, toothy smile, obviously convinced she would be indulged no matter what the request.

And she was probably right.

Santana rolled her eyes, but dutifully began sketching a pattern of ovals on Brittany's left cheek. She had yet to attach the butterfly wings to a thorax when Coach Beiste's voice announced through the loudspeaker that hayrides would commence in five minutes. Students were to gather in the parking lot immediately if they wished to participate.

"Crap, I'm not done," Santana said, filling the shapes with hasty pink scribbles. At first a hayride had sounded lame to her—something she would have enjoyed in ninth grade, perhaps, but certainly not in twelfth. Then Brittany's enthusiasm worked its magic on her, as it so often did these days. Now she couldn't think of anything she'd rather do than nestle into a pile of hay with her best friend, their bodies shielding each other from the cold, jostled together by Lima's bumpy roads. And there was always the possibility of stealing a kiss or two along the way...

"You can finish it when we get back."

"No, I can't. It'll be time to go home by then."

"Oh, yeah. Well..." Brittany waved off the green crayon poised near her face as Santana rushed to dot a head and antennae on the Pepto-Bismol-shaded blob she'd rendered. "I'm sure I still look awesome." She stood up and looped her pinkie around Santana's, tugging her towards the gymnasium doors where a herd of teenagers disguised as black cats, hobos, and everything in between, were filtering into the hall. Everyone else was keen on the idea of a hayride, too, it seemed. "Come on, or we'll miss the best spots."

Like a dazed parent being led through a toy store by an ecstatic child, Santana allowed herself to be dragged halfway out of the exit before she noticed that the crook of her elbow felt empty. "Shit, I left my basket on the table," she said, halting so abruptly the people who lagged behind swerved to avoid collision.

"Don't worry about it. No one's even in there to bother it."

Santana cast a hesitant glance over her shoulder. The gym was abandoned and would most likely remain that way until the teachers got tired of roaming through town with their caravan of high-schoolers. But if anything did happen to Rachel's phone, Santana would never hear the end of it. And though Quinn's father was a total asshole, the flask was one of the few things she had left of him. "I should grab it real quick. It's got everyone's stuff in it." Santana giggled when Brittany clamped onto her wrist, refusing to let her go. Prying herself loose a finger at a time, she said, "It'll just take a second. You go on ahead and save me a seat."

"Fine." Brittany heaved a sigh and pouted her bottom lip, then reached around to swat Santana lightly on the rear, hurrying her along. "Watch out for the big bad wolf," she called as she sprinted for the double doors that opened into the quad. Her long strides carried her past a group of freshman girls who looked on in admiration as she mounted the outer stairs with the ease of a gazelle.

"Keep dreaming," Santana said under her breath. Smiling, she turned on her heel and trotted back across the basketball court. As she approached the free-throw line where the table stood, she skidded on the slick floor, the flat soles of her shoes providing no traction. Her hands shot out reflexively, heart skipping a beat in that precarious moment before she regained balance. Glancing around self-consciously, she resumed a slower pace, almost tiptoeing as she became hyperaware of how loudly her footfalls clacked in the large, vacant room. There was something spooky about the lack of noise in a place that normally teemed with excitement and cheers. She snatched up the basket without pause, daring to walk a bit faster in the opposite direction. Once she was outside, she relaxed. Laughter and chattering voices drifted over from the parking lot on the far side of the building. Coach Beiste could be heard above the revelry, delivering staccato commands through a bullhorn. It sounded like she was yelling at someone to quit horsing around, but a gust of wind carried the words off before Santana made them out.

She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, wishing she had taken her mother's advice and worn her varsity jacket. But she hadn't wanted its bulk to make her look like a hunchback beneath the red polyester hood, or to detract from the rest of her costume. "Silly, vain little girl," her mother proclaimed affectionately. "Someday that cute behind you're so worried about covering up is going to freeze right off."

At the moment, Santana couldn't disagree with the prediction. She silently cursed Ohio and the frigid temperatures that seemed to be creeping in earlier and earlier each autumn. More eager than ever to be wrapped in Brittany's warm, peppermint-scented embrace, she jogged to the stairs, head bowed against the cold.

When he said her name and stepped from the darkened passageway to the football field, Santana drew a quick breath. It was barely audible—not even strong enough to be called a gasp—but he moved forward with his hand out in a reassuring manner.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"Then why are you lurking in the shadows like a serial killer?" Santana squinted up at him, unable to get a clear look at his face in the muted glow from inside the school building. Other than the distant haze of security lights in the parking lot around the corner, there wasn't much outside lighting on campus. Classes were conducted during daytime hours after all.

He turned his head, peering sideways for a moment and revealing the patch over his right eye. His creativity went no further. Clothed in the same jock attire as usual—jeans, T-shirt, letterman jacket—he looked more like an athlete with an ocular condition than a pirate. Typical dumb boy. When he chuckled at her question but didn't answer, Santana said in a dry tone, "Nice costume."

"Thanks. Yours, too." He gestured vaguely at her, then shuffled his feet and stuffed both hands into his pants pockets. "You look real... pretty."

"It's a lot more effective when you don't pause as if you're about to hurl." Santana jiggled her legs back and forth as another breeze nipped at her bare thighs and ruffled the edge of her skirt. The open pleats twisted in on themselves, displaying the white lining underneath. She smoothed them down and clucked her tongue with impatience when he failed to respond again. "Well, this has been a swell chat, but I gotta go," she said, moving past him, clasping the rail as she ascended the first step. The metal bar was cool to the touch, and she released it.

"Hey, wait," he said, catching her by the elbow. "Can you come with me for a minute? I really need to talk to you about something."

Santana huffed, glancing back at him with an annoyed expression he probably couldn't see behind the stupid eye patch. That was okay—it would be just as evident in her voice. "Um, it's not a good time for me. I'm going on the hayride."

"Please. It's important." He sounded urgent, which was rare for him. Normally he had two modes: dull and duller. "It won't take long."

She studied him for a second, her curiosity piqued by his nervous energy. She had always considered him easy to read, his attempts at deception weak and laughable. Their classmates were too frightened by his brawn to notice what a terrible liar he was, but a master of intimidation herself, Santana saw right through his macho act. Despite his best efforts, Dave Karofsky never fooled her. She wasn't going to let him get away with being mysterious now. "Okay, but this better be worth it," she said, sighing as she faced him. Their heights were almost level from her position on the stairs, and she leaned forward with her eyes narrowed. "And if it's some kind of douchey Halloween prank, I'll give you a real reason to wear that patch. _¿Comprende?_"

Karofsky nodded solemnly, a slight twitch in his jaw as he set it, and swallowed like he had a lump in his throat. Santana had learned that about him, too—piece of cake to control. He took even the most outrageous threats seriously, and he gave into pressure faster than most guys half his size. Sometimes Santana felt a little guilty for manipulating him so well, but then she remembered what a jerk he could be when left to his own devices.

Loosening his hold on her elbow, he slid his hand down and captured hers, chafing it gently between his palms when he felt how cold it was. "Come on," he said, guiding her off the steps and interlocking their fingers as he headed for the corridor to the football field.

Though it went unseen as they wandered along the dark path, Santana arched her eyebrow at him. It wasn't unusual for them to hold hands, at least not while at school. Occasional displays of affection were necessary if they wanted others to believe they were a couple, and this one had become automatic. But she'd repeatedly told him not to twine their fingers together—his were too thick, too callous, and she disliked the way they pinched at hers, cutting off circulation. Wriggling free, she wiped the sweat from his palm on the leg of his jeans, her nose crinkled in disgust. "God, lay off the baby oil," she said, mostly to elicit a reaction. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.

"Huh? Oh." Karofsky rested a heavy arm around her shoulders, pulling her close until she was tucked snugly against him. "Sorry."

"What is with you?" she asked, easing to the side to put some distance between them. His burly frame helped block the wind as they emerged next to the stadium, so she didn't shrug him completely off. But she did gaze up at him with suspicion, balking as he attempted to usher her through an open gate in the fencing around the bleachers. Before everyone had migrated to the gym, games of flashlight tag, cornhole and—for those idiotic enough to dunk their heads into a tub of cool water in these temperatures—bobbing for apples took place on the turf. A floodlight was still on, illuminating the far end of the field and casting strange shadows over everything else, including Karofsky. "You're being really weird. And that's coming from someone who remembers when you used to eat paste and lick the chalkboard."

He tried nudging her forward, but when she kept her feet firmly planted to the ground, he sighed in aggravation and scanned the dark recess beneath the bleachers. As she turned her head to see what he was looking at, he moved in front of her, cupping her face in his large, clumsy hands. "Just let me do this, okay?" he said, his voice low, pleading.

"Do—"

The question was cut off as he pressed chapped lips to her parted ones, working at them roughly, his tongue probing. He tasted like the sloppy Joes and sour cream and onion potato chips that Finn Hudson's mom had served on paper plates in the cafeteria when everyone lined up at dinnertime. At first Santana was too stunned to object, but as he plunged deeper into her mouth, gagging her, she flattened her palms against his chest and shoved with all the strength she could muster. Although he didn't budge, she succeeded in breaking the kiss. A thread of saliva still joined them, quivering in the air like spider's silk, and she hastily brushed it away, wiping at the moisture on her lips and chin.

"What the hell is your problem, Karofsky?" she demanded, thumping a fist to his sternum. They had made out at Puckerman's birthday bash at the beginning of semester, and sometimes they pecked each other on the cheek in the halls, but he'd never tried to kiss her without permission—or an audience—before. He knew better.

Grabbing her wrist as she prepared to hit him again, Karofsky put his other hand behind her head, drawing her close like a lover confiding a secret, and hissed into her ear, "They know about us. They're gonna out us tomorrow at school if we don't do this. Just shut your hole and pretend you're into it."

"Are you fucking retarded? You think I'm gonna stand here and let you maul me?" Santana leaned back, evading him as he bent in for another kiss. He sucked at the curve of her neck when he couldn't get to her mouth. He groped her butt with no more finesse than if he were testing the inflation of a football during practice. "Get off!"

"Please, Santana," he whispered through gritted teeth, tears of frustration glimmering in the eye that wasn't shrouded by black plastic. He blinked until they were gone, his arms constricting around her. "I'm not ready for people to know. It'll ruin my rep. And yours. You've done half the guys on the team, anyway." When that didn't deter the squirming, he clasped her by the shoulders and stuck his face directly in front of hers, every pockmark and ingrown hair visible. "I've helped you and put up with your shit this whole time. You owe me..." His lips were on hers again, rubbing them raw.

Santana reached for his hair, gathered a fistful of the short strands, and yanked. For a moment nothing happened, but when she gave another vicious pull, simultaneously kicking him in the shin, he finally jerked away from her. She smacked him across the face so hard that it turned his head and made her palm ache. "Asshole," she said, massaging her hand as she glared at him and retreated a few steps. He stayed where he was, looking at her with utter defeat, flexing his jaw as if she had knocked it out of place.

Several other choice names came to mind while she straightened her disheveled skirt and cloak, but as she prepared to tell him how many ways he could go fuck himself, someone behind her applauded and said, "Damn, Karofsky, she just made you her bitch." She spun around and searched the darkness under the bleachers where the sound had come from. Whoever had spoken was too well-hidden for her to see at a distance, but after some laughter—she heard more than one voice now—and scuffling noises, three figures strolled into view on the other side of the fence. The shortest boy was the easiest to recognize, even though a large Stetson hat concealed part of his Richard Simmons afro. She'd noticed Jacob Ben Israel stealing furtive looks her way earlier in the evening only because he couldn't be missed in that full cowboy regalia, which included chaps and boots with spurs. It hadn't struck her as odd—he stared at her from behind his horn rimmed glasses every other day of the year, too, especially since becoming Sue Sylvester's top investigative journalist for _The Muckraker_. To his right loomed the much heftier physique of Azimio Adams. Also a member of Sylvester's news crew, Azimio had formed an alliance of sorts with Jacob, each exploiting the others' skills in order to get the best scoop. With Azimio as muscle and Jacob as the brains, the two were a formidable pair who coerced secrets out of almost everyone. Everyone except Santana.

And there in the middle, leading the small pack, was Lee Bowman. At 6-foot-3 it didn't take much for him to stand out in a crowd. Running back for the Titans and star of the McKinley track team, Lee's impressive stride had been earning him titles like "speed demon" and "roadrunner" since sophomore year. That was also the year Santana lost her virginity to him in the tree house his father—one of Lima's most prominent attorneys—had custom built for him when he was ten. She dumped him three days later, to the chagrin of his parents as well as hers, all of whom believed the teenagers were a perfect match. Her father was particularly fond of "the Bowman kid," but then, she'd never told him about the mean streak Lee concealed behind his choirboy looks. Even as a fifteen-year-old with no prior experience dating boys, she sensed he was trouble. And not the fun kind.

When he finished clapping, he slid down the aviator sunglasses that were balanced on his nose and flashed an immaculate smile at her. Daddy raked out a fortune to fix those gnarly teeth of his, too. She'd hated the scrape of his braces when they kissed. Rounding the gap in the fence, Jacob and Azimio trailing close behind, Lee reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket and extracted what looked like a beer can inside a brown paper sack. He took a swig as he approached, and Santana could tell she'd guessed correctly. From the smell of him, he'd already had a few.

"Care to reenact that for us?" he said, pointing at the bleachers. "It was kind of hard to see and hear from back there."

"That's because you're wearing sunglasses at night, dumb-ass," Santana said, crossing both arms through the handle of her basket. She edged away from him, listening for Coach Beiste and the bullhorn. She wanted to be in the parking lot getting yelled at and goofing off with everyone else—with Brittany. But anger kept her in place. Besides, if any of the guys thought for a minute she was afraid of them, they would use it against her for the entire semester.

"Always the charmer," said Lee.

"Bet I know how Karofsky's half went," Azimio said as he elbowed Lee. Obviously a little inebriated, he giggled and rooted under the collar of his hoodie, withdrawing the surgical mask tied around his neck. Looping one of the strings over his ear, he tried to dangle the shield across his eye like a patch. He spoke in an effeminate, lisping tone: "Santana, stop licking Brittany's pussy and come make heterosexual love to me. That's right, mm-hmm... now bend over..."

"Asshole," Lee answered in falsetto, pretending to backhand Azimio.

"Ooh!" Azimio squealed in delight. "If you insist."

The parody continued, but Santana was too rattled by the mention of Brittany to hear its final act. Instead, she looked to Karofsky for an explanation, but he was shaking his bowed head and running a hand through his hair in a repetitive, agitated motion. She settled for Jacob, his gap-toothed grin fading as she fixed him with a harsh glare. "What is this bullshit?" she asked.

"Word through the grapevine is you and Karofsky are not, in fact, lovers, but simply posing as each others' beards to avoid public ridicule. You've been spotted canoodling with Brittany S. Pierce on numerous occasions and—"

"Shut it, Katie Couric." Lee swatted the brim of Jacob's hat down so it covered half of his face, then leaned on the fence to sip his beer. He offered the can to Santana, his dimples showing when she shot him a disgusted look. "Been a long time since we touched base, Red. Seems like I hardly know you anymore," he said in a quiet voice, tweaking one of her pigtails. He laughed when she slapped his hand aside. But he also stood to his full height and spoke louder. "Imagine my surprise when I start hearing all these rumors that you've gone lesbo. I didn't believe it at first because... well..." She was a dim reflection in his sunglasses as they scanned her from head to foot. "Look at you. Plus, there's our whole history."

"You have a history?" Jacob asked, still resituating the Stetson.

Lee ignored him. "But the more I listened to Karofsky bragging in the locker room about how he can't get you off his dick, the more I started to think he was compensating for something. So I quizzed him on specifics, and, y'know, he just couldn't provide an adequate description?"

"And that's supposed to mean something?" Santana said. "It's Karofsky. He probably doesn't remember what he ate for breakfast."

"Cock," said Azimio.

"Yeah, but you're not the kind of lay a guy easily forgets, are you, Lopez?" Lee fiddled with the tab of his beer can until it broke off, then flicked it to the ground near Santana's shoe. "He didn't even know about your scar."

"She has a scar?" Jacob sounded as if he might burst with excitement.

"Yep, on her belly. Looks like a little caterpillar." Lee tilted his head affectionately. "Cutest thing you ever saw."

When Santana was thirteen, an acute case of appendicitis ruined the first month of her summer vacation and left her with a 3-inch appendectomy scar on her lower abdomen. Once it healed she had grown fond of the blemish, especially after her father dubbed it a war wound, but now she hated it for being such a revealing, intimate detail. She felt exposed as the boys stared at her. The wind made her shiver.

"I called him on it," Lee continued, "and he tried to recant all the other stuff. Said you wouldn't put out. But I knew that wasn't true because Santana Lopez never says no, right?"

Santana didn't bother responding; any defense she gave would be weak at best. She'd made that exact claim herself more than once. But how could she explain that things were different now? She was different. She no longer needed to search for some elusive spark, because she had found out what was missing—who was missing. Even if she weren't hiding her sexuality, those were private feelings she didn't want to share. Lee hadn't finished, anyway.

"So then he confirmed that you're a dyke and he's just acting like your boyfriend out of the kindness of his great big non-gay heart..."

"Thanks a lot," Santana muttered to Karofsky. Busy scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the asphalt, he wouldn't acknowledge her.

"But that doesn't sound like him. He doesn't help people for no reason, and if he's the man he claims to be, he sure as hell wouldn't let you emasculate him all the time. I mean, he's gotta be queer to go along with those Bully Whips uniforms."

"Should be called the Pussy Whips," said Azimio.

"I'm not a queer," Karofsky said quietly, fists clenching and unclenching at his side.

Lee gestured at him with the can. "That's what he kept saying to me. So I told him to prove it."

"And you wanted him to do that by, what? Bringing me here to have sex in front of you?" Santana asked, more incredulous than angry. That soon changed.

"His idea, not mine."

She cast a disdainful look on each boy, receiving only smirks from Lee and Azimio, a convulsive gulp followed by a weaselly grin from Jacob, and absolutely nothing from Karofsky. Despite finding them all repugnant, it was Karofsky who infuriated her the most. Maybe they weren't friends, but she had at least considered him an ally. If the situation were reversed, she would have lied like crazy to protect him. "First off," she said, leveling her tone, though chattering teeth and hurt feelings made it difficult, "calling someone else queer doesn't work when you're dressed up like the fucking Village People. Seriously, I'm recommending Mr. Schue recruit you guys to sing 'YMCA' at the next assembly."

Scowling, Azimio tucked the surgical mask under his collar and whapped the brim of Jacob's hat down.

"And second... go to hell. You're just a bunch of sick, pathetic little pervs who aren't getting any themselves. Next time, whack off in front of the computer at home where you belong."

Coach Beiste's one minute warning to stragglers filtered over from the parking lot, a thin, wraithlike version of her normal baritone. Dry leaves skittered along the path ahead as if they were racing to join the others already packed into the wagons. Anxious to do the same, Santana motioned for the boys to let her pass. "Now get out of my way, please. There are actual human beings I'd rather be hanging out with."

"You haven't denied the allegations that you're a lesbian," Jacob said hurriedly, and even the fringe on his suede vest danced with anticipation. "If you walk away now, I can only assume that they're true. I'll be forced to run this story in _The Muckraker_."

Chin lifted defiantly, Santana tried to appear more confident than she felt. She knew she might end up regretting her decision, but she also wasn't about to let a twerp like Jacob Ben Israel bully her. "I don't give a shit what you print in that lame-ass paper. It's full of gossip and lies, and no one believes the stuff they read in it, anyway."

"What about Karofsky? Is he gay, too?"

Santana glanced at Karofsky. He finally met her eye, his features twisted in desperation. "You're on your own," she said to him, shouldering past Jacob. Lee shifted back and forth a few times, teasingly blocking her exit until she stopped to glare at him. She heard Azimio taunting Karofsky—"There goes your fag hag"—but ignored it, pressing on when Lee laughed, genuflected as if she were royalty, and moved aside. She refused to turn when the insults grew more vicious, accompanied by sounds of a tussle. Instead, she quickened her pace, ready to escape the mess and salvage the remainder of her evening. As she comforted herself with thoughts of talking to Brittany, who would surely know how to cheer her up, something slammed into her from behind. She stumbled forward, the basket clattering to the asphalt as she put both arms out to break her fall. Just before impact, another powerful shove sent her reeling sideways into the chain-link fence. It pinged noisily as she bounced off and dropped on all fours to the grassy strip beside the pavement. The earth was soft from the previous day's rain showers, but her wrists gave with a sharp twinge and she crumpled onto her elbows.

"Tell them I'm not a fag," Karofsky snarled when she looked up, slightly dazed, and saw him standing over her. He reached down and seized the collar of her cloak and uniform, jerking her upright until she was on her knees, facing the other boys. Their shocked expressions hinted at smiles, as if they expected the scene to become humorous, as if they awaited a punch line to the joke Karofsky and Santana were staging. "Tell them," he said again, shaking her.

"Let me go, you goddamn—" None of the words that came to mind were strong enough, so she swung at him instead, landing a blow to his thigh. He didn't even flinch. She aimed for his crotch the second time, but he batted her fist away like it was an annoying bug. She tried to bite him; he shook her harder. "You fucking cocksucker—"

Karofksy raised his hand high in the air. For a moment the paint that had transferred to his skin when he kissed her shone in the moonlight, a smudged red heart in his wide open palm. He slapped her with a force that would have laid her flat had he not been supporting her. The idea seemed to occur to him, too, and he flung her facedown onto the grass a second later. "Bitch," he spat.

Santana lay still, letting the cool, damp ground soothe her inflamed cheek. She talked tough, and she'd participated in a fair share of girl fights, but no one had ever hit her like that before, least of all someone with Karofsky's strength. It wounded her pride almost as much as it stung her flesh. An unbidden tear trailed across the bridge of her nose, slipped into the blades of grass, and was lost. One of the boys—she couldn't be sure which with her head turned, ear pressed shut—said, "Show her who's boss, Karofsky."

Frightened by what the tone implied, Santana scrambled to get up, only to be flipped over and pinned on her back by Karofsky. He crawled on top of her, straddling but not sitting on her pelvis. His hands restrained her shoulders, and she tugged at his elbow, trying to bend his arm—any small advantage better than none. Getting no results, she searched for a weak spot in his emotions. "I'm sorry," she said abruptly, her taut voice not conveying the sincerity she had hoped. "I didn't mean to call you that." And she honestly hadn't intended to; it was just one of many curses she used in heated moments.

"Too late now," he said, that single eye of his staring down at her. It wasn't covered in black like the other, but it was every bit as empty. "Should've kept your big mouth shut when I said so. This is your fault." He began pawing at the front of her uniform, squeezing her breasts until she winced. Unsatisfied with the grip he was getting through the layers of polyester shell, stretchy white turtleneck and bra, he slid his hands under both tops, twisting and pinching. Brow puckered in concentration, he fumbled with the bra cups and didn't notice her fingernails until they scraped across his cheek, drawing blood. She attempted to knee him in the groin, much to the delight of the boys who watched. Or at least a certain boy.

"Look out, she's a ball-buster," Lee said.

And after a moment, Azimio added, "I dunno, Top Gun, she might be too much woman for him. Even if she is a dyke."

Though the assault on his privates had missed, Karofsky let his full weight rest against Santana's middle to prevent another. She still kicked her legs, heels digging into the ground for some kind of leverage. They wore away at the grass until her shoes slid uselessly in the mud. "Get him off me," she pleaded to the bystanders, singling Jacob out when she looked at them. "Please. Make him stop."

The two others were busy riffling through the contents of her basket. Jacob stared at her with a mixture of fear and fascination, his body shifting almost imperceptibly. If he'd wanted to step in, he never got the chance: Lee helped himself to a piece of the watermelon-flavored bubble gum that Becky Jackson had been excited to share with her fellow Cheerios, then he slung an arm around Jacob's shoulder. "Dude, you should be filming this," he said, passing Rachel Berry's cell phone to Jacob. "It'll be the best shit you ever posted on your blog."

Jacob glanced up at Lee, then down at Santana. The phone emitted small, cartoonish beeps as he fiddled with buttons, hunting for the video feature.

Karofsky's hands were all over her. He was yanking at the waistband of her skirt, his big, thick fingers unable to locate the tiny zipper tab on the hip. When she threw wild punches at his chest and face, he caught one of her wrists, secured it above her head, and tried to nab the other. She fought hard to keep it from him—and she screamed. She gathered as much air as her rapidly pumping heart and lungs allowed and shrieked the only thing she could think of: "Help!"

"Jesus, shut her up."

"Naw, they won't hear her over the trucks and Beiste. They're leaving, anyhow."

"Yeah, but that shit hurts my ears."

"Pussy."

The conversation was a low hum—a car radio tuned softly in the background—as bright white fireworks exploded inside Santana's eye sockets. Karofsky had his hands on either side of her head, slamming it against the ground. By the third blow, she was convinced he would bash her skull in. The back of her sinuses burned the way it did when she was little and hadn't yet learned to dunk in the swimming pool without ingesting water. She began to cry, body going limp beneath him. Apparently that was what he wanted, because he released her head and moved further down, disappearing from view while she gazed at the starless sky through a blur of tears. He finally figured out that he could lift her skirts and pull down the Spankies. He crammed them into her mouth when she mumbled something in Spanish, a prayer her mother had often used to calm her after childhood nightmares.

Her whimpers became stunted puffs as they were absorbed by the underwear. She started to panic, gagging and heaving for breath as the cloth got sucked deeper into her throat with each inhalation. "Breathe through your nose, stupid," Karofsky said, and she obeyed. If she hadn't been so limber from all the Cheerios practice in recent weeks, it would have hurt to have her legs forced that far apart; he was between them, lowering his zipper. The sound made her more lucid, cleared her addled brain. She tried to roll away from him, but he held her in place with his left hand, exposing his penis with the right. He wasn't hard yet.

"Don't look at me," he ordered, pushing her face sideways as he rubbed himself against her thighs and between her legs. He did this for several moments, his fingers clenching tighter and tighter at different parts of her—breasts, hips, arms, knees. He flushed red with exertion as she watched, only briefly closing her eyes tight when he tried to grind into her. But nothing worked.

"How much foreplay do you homos need?" Azimio asked, sounding bored.

Lee popped a bubble. "One-Eyed Willy can't get it up," he said, lips smacking.

"It's just because you're all watching," Karofsky said vehemently, thumping his fist on the ground close to Santana's head. "I can't do her with you asswipes standing over my shoulder. Besides, she's too dry. That's all it is." He repeated the latter phrase a few more times, zipping his pants as he got to his feet. Then he let out a furious roar and attacked the chain-link fence, kicking and pummeling until it shuddered halfway down the football field.

Santana curled into a protective ball, expecting to be his next target. When he left her alone, she pulled the sodden underwear from her mouth, clutched it where they couldn't see, and hacked with an intensity that nearly made her vomit. Tongue adhering to the roof of her mouth, she tried to produce enough saliva to spit the lingering taste of laundry detergent into the grass. She struggled to sit up, but got no further than propped elbows, overcome by wooziness and the sensation that her brain was about to pop like an engorged tick inside her skull. "C-can I go now?" she asked, too humiliated to meet anyone's eye. She was shivering uncontrollably and wanted nothing more than to run home, crawl under the covers and cry in the solitude of her safe, warm bed.

"Show us your tits first," Jacob said, the phone poised at arm's-length, camera lens directed at Santana.

Azimio laughed and clapped him on the shoulder approvingly. "Yeah, otherwise it's too anti-climatic."

"Climactic," Lee enunciated. "This isn't the Weather Channel, dipshit." He pushed the basket and his beer into Azimio's chest, waiting for them to be received, then ambled towards Santana. Sliding the aviator sunglasses to the top of his head as he neared her, he offered out his hand with a chivalrous grin. She stared at it warily, afraid to move, knowing this was some kind of trick. His fingers beckoned her to reach for them, but she shook her head. "Well, guys," he said in a loud voice that made her jump, "I guess she likes it on her back. She just needs a real man to get her motor revved. Don't you, Lo?"

During their month-long endeavor at a relationship, he had taken to calling her that—Lo. They bickered playfully about what their celebrity power couple name would be. Santana wanted "Leelo" because one of her favorite Disney movies was _Lilo & Stitch_; Lee insisted upon "Lobo." Like the wolf.

When she didn't answer, he nudged her thigh with his Converse sneaker, inching up the black lace that lay torn and drooping after Karofsky's mistreatment. She crab-walked away from him, but bumped into something solid, her hand resting on top a different pair of shoes. The feet inside them belonged to Karofsky—she recognized his jeans—and she recoiled.

She was trapped between both boys. As she forced herself to glance up, ready to beg, grovel, weep, whatever it took, Karofsky spoke to Lee in a hushed tone:

"Maybe we should just let her leave, bro. She's probably too small for you, anyways."

"Damn, not only a gigantic flaming butt-pirate, but also a moron." Lee waved him off with disgust. "They're built for it," he said, pointing at Santana. "Unlike your boyfriend's asshole. Now let me worry about the lady. You go hit on Brokeback Mountain over there."

"Hey!" Jacob protested.

Karofsky visibly seethed with rage as he tore the patch from his eye. Santana willed him to start a fistfight, or at least argue long enough for her to make an escape, but he hung his head and drifted over to stand sullenly beside Azimio and Jacob. She watched him go—her would-be rapist and possible savior—taking her last shred of hope with him. _You're on your own_, she thought. It echoed in her mind, and when Lee snapped his fingers in front of her face for attention, she drew one knee back and drove a vicious, hard-soled Mary Jane into his shin. The sunglasses flew off his head as he leapt aside, cringing and swearing. He bent to grab them up and she kicked him again in the shoulder, almost toppling him. While he was off balance, Santana clambered to her feet and looked for a place to run. There were few options. They had her cornered by the fence, and she knew at least two of them could easily catch her if she tried to get past—three, with Lee quickly recovering. Out of time and choices, she turned and darted inside the gate to the football field. If she was lucky, there would be another gate open elsewhere. Or maybe she could hide. Maybe they would even decide not to chase her.

"She knows how I love a good sprint," Lee shouted.

"Go get her, Speedy," Azimio said just as loudly.

And Jacob added, "_¡Ándale! ¡Ándale!_"

Santana yelled for help as she raced along the track that bordered the field. But at the sound of footsteps pounding the springy surface behind her, she conserved her breath and focused on moving faster. Although she was agile from years of gymnastics, running had never been her strong suit. It left her winded and hurt her ankles. Now she ignored the pain, the burning lungs, and just ran.

Lee was gaining on her, though. She didn't have to look back to know his fingers were the ones that grazed her cloak. She also knew he was taunting her; unless she had broken his leg with that kick (_god if only_), there was no way she could outrun him. Suddenly veering to the right, she bolted up the nearby ramp to the bleachers. Hurdles. Lee always had trouble with hurdles.

She hadn't counted on the tiers still being wet from yesterday's rain. Her shoes skidded precariously as she dodged across benches, legs threatening to shoot out from under her at any moment. Lee seemed to be having the same problem. She heard his Chuck Taylors squeak in protest—"Whoa," he said—followed by a heavy clang that made the aluminum plank vibrate beneath her. For a second, spiteful, razor-sharp triumph cut through her, but it changed to terror when a dark hand appeared from the slot between benches and seized her ankle. Azimio's hand, it occurred to her as she fell.

She landed crosswise on one of the seats. Somewhere a bone snapped. At first she wasn't sure if it had been a rib or her outstretched arm, since blinding pain went through both. But when she dropped from the bottom tier onto the ground, she instinctively cradled her right arm, waves of sickness rolling through her. She barely registered the sight of Lee, unharmed by his spill, hopping down to stand above her with a smug expression. "You're pretty quick," he said, hauling her up by the waist, "for a girl."

With Santana dangling from his arm like prized game, he joined his friends under the bleachers. He deposited her unceremoniously in the dirt, amongst the cigarette butts, loose coins and bottle caps. Grateful to have landed on her left this time, she continued to protect her injured arm, fading in and out of consciousness. She woke to an agonized scream she didn't realize came from her own mouth until Lee—gripping her right shoulder to reposition her—covered it. The pain brought everything into sharp focus. She was on her back again, and Lee was undoing his belt buckle. Jacob and Azimio were a few feet away, illuminated in an eerie blue glow from the phone. ("Get ya some, Top Gun," Azimio said.) A short distance from them, Karofsky leaned against a post with his head down, hands in his pockets.

"Please, don't," she implored weakly, then said it over and over. Lee knelt between her thighs, showing no signs of stopping, so she switched tactics: "I'll tell my dad." It was a flimsy defense that made her feel like an eight-year-old tattletale, but she didn't care. Her father was the most powerful man she knew.

Lee paused only to smirk. "Your daddy is a spic gynecologist who's a generation away from mopping floors at my dad's law firm. Who do you think has more clout in this town?"

"You'll get kicked off the team. It'll go on your record."

"You're the school slut. Nobody'll blame me." He put a finger to his lips, signaling for Santana to be quiet, then tugged down his pants and boxers. Resorting to "please" and "don't," she tried closing her legs, but he kept them apart with little effort. The ground was cold and gritty against her bare buttocks as he pushed her skirt up; briefly, she fretted about where she had dropped the Spankies and who might find them. He didn't waste time fondling or groping the way Karofsky had—didn't need to. He thrust himself inside of her and clamped his hand over her mouth when she cried out. With the other, he elevated her hips and drove in vigorously, punishingly, a groove forming in the dirt as her body rocked beneath him. She gagged and pried at his hand, gulping air when he moved it aside in annoyance. She restricted herself to small, involuntary groans so he wouldn't silence her again. Afraid he might touch her arm, she complied as he manipulated her hips, buttocks and legs into the positions he wanted. He'd definitely matured since the tree house. Back then they had both been nervous and unsure of themselves. In fact, all the boys Santana had slept with since then were like that. But, now, Lee knew how to do things even Puckerman didn't—and they all hurt.

"Huh-uh, keep 'em open," he burred when she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for him to finish. Not getting an immediate response, he blew in her face until she blinked, the sickly sweet smell of watermelon gum flooding her nostrils. "Good girl. I've missed looking into those gorgeous brown eyes."

For a while the faint guttural noises they made were in sync. Then Lee's gaze became fixed, pupils dilated, and he leaned closer, bearing down with his full weight and strength. Santana clenched her jaw till it ached, grasping the soft sleeve of his leather jacket just to have something to hold onto. Hours seemed to pass before he finally grunted like a quarterback getting sacked, and slumped on top of her. He panted into her hair for a long time as she concentrated on short breaths, unable to expand her chest with him lying on it. Eventually he propped himself up enough to kiss her forehead. "You never forget your first," he murmured, then sat back on his haunches, pulling his pants up. After he stood and stared blankly at her for a moment, he went to retrieve his beer and a high-five from Azimio.

Santana put her legs together gradually, wincing at the soreness between them. She wasn't sure if the wet feeling was blood or semen, but she didn't want either leaking onto her Cheerios skirt. Drawing her knees up, she smoothed the pleats with a violently trembling hand and rolled onto her side. It was the side facing _them_, but she couldn't turn the other way because of her right arm. Bending the left one, she rested her head against it and refused to look at them. _It's over_, she told herself. _It's over_.

"You're up next, Zeem," said Lee, chomping that damn gum.

Fresh fear surged through Santana so quickly she heard a rushing in her ears. But she remained mute and immobile, hoping by some miracle it would make her invisible. Or at least make them lose interest. She peeked at them askance, praying with more conviction than she had since elementary school.

"I dunno, man," Azimio said, grinning from ear to ear despite his hesitant tone. "Looks like you worked her over pretty good."

"Oh, she can handle it. She's like my dad's Prius. Gets great mileage," Lee said, rocking his pelvis suggestively, "and rides like a dream."

Azimio laughed and shook his head as he glanced towards Santana. "But if my mom finds out..."

"Dude. She won't. And it'll be our word against a dirty little Mexican skank." Lee lightly punched the "M" that adorned the front of Azimio's letterman jacket. "Everyone knows she's done most of the team. 'Cept you. Don't tell me you never wanted a piece of that."

"Well... she is fine..."

"Yeah, she is," Lee said emphatically, delivering a second, harder punch. "Probably be your last shot before she's a full-fledged carpet muncher, too." And another.

Third time's a charm.

"All right." Linking his fingers, Azimio stretched his arms and made an arrogant display of cracking his knuckles. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, snapping them on with the same affectation. Then he freed the surgical mask from beneath his collar and playfully shoved Lee out of the way. "Step aside, son. Let Dr. Feelgood show you how it's done."

Lee whooped encouragement and nudged Jacob until he joined in.

Santana ordered herself to _get up!_, inwardly shrieking at her limbs to _move!_, but they weren't cooperating. Her good arm wobbled when she leaned on it, and her legs were too shaky to support her. She dropped heavily onto her bottom as she tried to stand. Bits of earth embedded under her fingers as she clawed at it, managing to squirm a few inches away.

"Where you going, girl?" Azimio said in an amused tone, catching her by the ankle and dragging her back to where she had been. He giggled when her shoe came off in his hand. She thrashed while he attempted to stuff it on her foot, but the kicks she dealt in just a sock were ineffectual, humorous to him. Gathering a fistful of dirt, she hurled it in his face and brought the game to an abrupt end.

"Fuck." He blinked reflexively, scrubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. They were red and watery when he cocked his arm and flung the shoe at her chest. It bounced off with a dull thud that doubled her over, clutching the spot and coughing.

"Need some help, doc?" Lee asked teasingly.

"Naw, I got this," Azimio said, swiping moisture from his cheeks. To Santana, who resisted being pushed onto her back yet again, he added, "Have it your way," and knocked her flat on her stomach. She almost blacked out—and would have preferred it—when her arm flopped against the ground. But Azimio denied her even that small victory by rubbing her face in the dirt until she gasped for air. "How do you like it?" he demanded as she sputtered and wheezed on the flecks she inhaled.

Thankfully, he soon tired of revenge and for a few blessed moments his hands left her. She clung to the freedom, wanting it to last forever; knowing it wouldn't. And sure enough, the respite was interrupted by the sound of his jeans unzipping, the awareness of him kneeling behind her. She began crawling on her belly like a soldier in combat, but he captured the waistband of her skirt, and yanked. Several stitches popped along the seam, and she abandoned the struggle, afraid he would rip the material entirely from her body. Instead, he swept the pleats upwards, revealing her backside, and gave it a brisk slap. "Skinny little ass," he said, his disappointment evident. "I thought Spanish girls were supposed to have some booty."

_I'm Puerto Rican, you stupid motherfucker_. In her mind, Santana shouted it at him; on the outside, she had to summon the strength just to lift her head and turn it in the opposite direction. She wouldn't give Lee the satisfaction of seeing her face while this happened. And it had started. Azimio was rubbing his cock against her, growing stiffer as he slid between her buttocks and squeezed them in his hands. Every muscle in her body tensed with fear and discomfort, and she whimpered unintelligible requests for him to stop. They were ignored, of course, but he at least spared her the degradation she'd expected—sodomy might have made him seem gay after all. So he raped her the same way Lee had, plunging in just as ruthlessly, jarring her slender frame with each thrust. She was still wet enough from Lee to ease some of the friction, but Azimio was larger and less skilled. If she hadn't already been torn, he guaranteed it.

The rhythmic sound of his flesh bucking into hers, light and fluid like waves lapping against a dock, was the only noise he made. Santana blocked it out, her thoughts drifting elsewhere, carrying her far away from the present horror. She wondered where her friends were... (_did they notice she was missing?_) They must have reached the town square by now... (_would they look for her?_) Perhaps they had cajoled the adults into stopping at the Lima Bean for cocoa to warm themselves up. Brittany would get the gingersnap latte, though. That was her favorite. She always offered Santana the first sip, before the cream dissolved.

Tears of relief poured down Santana's cheeks. She was so glad Brittany had gone ahead. She couldn't bear the thought of the girl witnessing this. Or worse yet, being hurt by the boys, too.

Brought back to reality by Azimio pulling out, Santana used the edge of her cloak to wipe at the dirt caked on her lips, under her runny nose and to the cheek she wasn't resting on. It had started to dry already, forming a hard, pinching crust over her skin. She flinched and hid beneath the cloak when Azimio gave her a parting slap on the ass. He walked away, not bothering to acknowledge her with words.

"Too tight," he announced to the others. "I've had better."

"You're full of shit," Lee said, chuckling nonetheless. And after a brief pause:

"Saddle up, buckaroo."

Jacob stammered nervously—excitedly?—as he replied, "You said I could only come along to get the story."

"I'm feeling generous. And this is the story now. Once people find out you banged a hot cheerleader, they'll see you as something more than a greasy little shit stain. You'll get all kinds of action."

"She's not really my type."

"If she's breathing, she's your type. No offense, dude, but look at you. Then look at her. When are you ever going to have another opportunity like this?"

Jacob took a long time to answer. Santana bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood.

"I must admit, I was titillated when I overheard Xavier Martin talking about the blowjob she gave him last year. He said she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose."

Santana shook her head feebly, though she doubted anyone would notice. But that wasn't true, what Jacob had said. She'd never given a blowjob to Xavier Martin, whoever the hell he was. In fact, she disliked performing oral sex—at least with guys—and had only tried it once when Puckerman claimed that every Cheerio he dated gave great head. She hadn't even worked up the courage to suggest it to Brittany back when they were still fooling around. It required a level of intimacy she was unprepared for, despite her best efforts to treat sex casually. She wanted to tell Jacob that the Xaxier person had lied, but it took every bit of energy just to slide her left arm forward and raise up on one elbow. Her lower body was numb with cold and trauma, knees unwilling to bend. She wished she could push her skirt down.

"Guess you piqued her interest," Lee said, leading Jacob by the shoulder as they approached Santana. He motioned for Azimio to follow.

"I don't want to," Santana said, her dry throat and chattering teeth producing little more than a broken whisper. She rasped the words again, watching their shoes advance from the corner of her eye. Jacob's spurs jingled with each step.

When the boys stood overhead, Lee set the basket and beer aside and squatted next to Santana. He inclined his ear in her direction. "Come again?"

"I don't know how. I've never done that." It was partially true. The experiment with Puck had been brief, and though he raved about it, she had no clue what she was doing.

Lee snorted behind his hand, as if his mirth couldn't be contained. "Right. We totally believe you," he said, sweeping a tousled pigtail off her shoulder for a better view of her face. He tilted her chin up, forcing eye contact. "And we're here to help you learn. You're a... mildly intelligent girl, you'll catch on." Resting his palm on her back in a comforting manner, he then grasped a fistful of cloak and uniform and lifted her into a kneeling position.

At first, being upright alleviated the pressure on her injury. But relief was short-lived as the limb dangled uselessly, feeling unnaturally heavy. The strain on her shoulder became intolerable, as though her arm were rending itself from the socket. Dizzy with pain, she swayed and started to drop over when Lee released her clothing. She caught a whiff of latex as another pair of hands offered assistance—one grabbing the nape of her neck, the other her chest. Through a haze of nausea, she watched Lee intercept the phone from Jacob (_the hands must be Azimio's_) and urge him forward with a kick to the rear. Timidly, the boy stepped up to Santana, his eyes enormous behind their frames, and fumbled with the buckle of his chaps. He moistened his lips and attempted to smile at her.

"I can't," Santana said tearfully. "I'm gonna throw up."

Lee panned the camera lens in Jacob's direction. "Doesn't look like she fancies you much, either. Jewish cowboys must not do it for her. Too bad you don't have any pussy in there for her to eat out." He angled the lens at Jacob's crotch.

"Maybe he does," Azimio chimed in. "He's got that hermaphrodite vibe."

The football players snickered, waiting expectantly while Jacob glanced back and forth at them, his cheeks coloring. Avoiding Santana's bleary gaze, he unzipped his jeans and lowered them to his calves, chaps and underwear going with them. "Nope, all male," he boasted, displaying himself inches from her.

"I stand corrected," said Azimio, tightening his fingers on Santana's neck when she cringed and tried to turn away. It hurt, but she ignored the warning and continued to squirm until he trapped her head between his hands. He held her still as Jacob leaned in and tentatively rubbed against her cheek, then, as he became more aroused, over the rest of her face. She squeezed her eyes shut when he neared them, grazing the lids; opened them again when he kneaded her breasts with a rough, greedy hand. She hated to see what he was doing, but it made her feel more powerless not to.

Within seconds he was fully erect, stroking her compressed lips with the tip of his penis. After several light nudges failed to coax them apart, he applied a bit of force, prodded, and said, "Suck me. Now." Not getting the desired results, he wrapped one of her pigtails around his fist and yanked. Santana gritted her teeth, determined not to scream or open her mouth for any reason—even if he pulled the hair right out of her scalp, as it seemed he might. But the other boys were laughing at his predicament, and he came up with a quick, simple solution she hadn't considered. He let go of her hair and pinched her nose shut.

Santana couldn't shake him off, or move her head at all, with Azimio's vicelike grip in place. She wrenched at Jacob's hand, but she was too tired and weak to overpower him. And he was the one boy of the group she'd been certain she could outmatch physically. Hot tears sprung to her eyes when he brushed her hand aside with ease. She fought back emotion and the need for oxygen, but she had already been out of breath from the start, and it was a short battle. The moment she parted her lips just enough to inhale sharply, Azimio looped his arm around her head, clutching her lower jaw in his free hand. His fingers dug into her cheeks, preventing her teeth and lips from closing.

"What if she bites me?" Jacob asked, hesitating as he was about to enter her mouth.

"If she tries it, Azimio will break her jaw," Lee said matter-of-factly.

"You gonna bite him?" Azimio growled, his arm crushing at her skull, demonstrating his strength to do as Lee had promised.

"No." Santana sagged in his embrace, repeating the word until she couldn't anymore. Jacob filled her mouth to capacity, suffocating the final protest. Eventually he remembered to let go of her nose, and she took in deep, frantic breaths through her nostrils, trying not to choke on him. She followed the orders he moaned, doing her best to "lick" and "suck" as instructed, hoping that it would relieve the fullness at the back of her throat. But he didn't give her the chance to obey one command before moving on to the next, his eager thrusts making her desperate to gag. Fortunately his lack of self-restraint brought him to an early climax and stopped him from jamming himself any further down her throat; but the dank, bitter taste of his come was just as much of an assault on the senses. Unable to block the reflex, she swallowed when he withdrew. It was more than her upset stomach and abused throat could handle.

Azimio had released her at some point, and she wavered for a moment on her knees. Then she bent forward and retched violently, covering Jacob's cowboy boots in a dark layer of vomit that resembled blood in the dim lighting. He hadn't finished pulling his pants up yet, and he leapt back with a disgusted cry. "Oh, that's nasty," said Azimio, but joined in with Lee's riotous laughter. Santana leaned unsteadily on her hand, shuddering and dry heaving until she sank to the ground in exhaustion. She longed to lie down and let the sick feeling pass, but she would not resume a submissive pose in front of them. Though she had to hunch over and rest on her elbow, she stayed seated. She only half-listened to the conversation the boys were having, failing to absorb most of it.

"If I were you, I'd edit that part out for your blog," Lee was saying.

"Seriously, dude," said Azimio, "if she wasn't already gay, you just sealed the deal. And ruined my love of fruit punch. Nice going."

"Yeah, well, it won't be a big loss. She's nothing special." Jacob shook one leg and then the other, flicking the mess off his boots. When he stepped towards Santana again, his pants and chaps were up—but still undone—his penis exposed. He stared at her coldly for a moment, then urinated down the front of her uniform as he added, "Definitely no Rachel Berry."

The acrid scent reached Santana before her mind connected his actions with the warmth spreading across her chest. She recoiled, using both feet to scoot herself backwards, the abrasive dirt skinning her thighs. Harsh, wheezing coughs racked her body, but there wasn't anything left for her convulsing stomach to expel. She was drained of everything except the tears that poured down her cheeks in a ceaseless flow.

"Goddamn it, now she'll stink like your piss." Lee knocked Jacob's hat off and shoved him aside.

"Aren't we kind of... done with her?" Jacob asked, righting himself and stuffing the hat back on his head. He accepted the phone when Lee handed it over as if nothing had happened.

Lee didn't answer. He stood above Santana, his nose wrinkled in disdain as he studied her and the filth nearby. She prayed that it would repel him; that his aversion to the smell would put an end to whatever cruel plan was forming behind his blank, unfeeling eyes. But once again God turned a deaf ear on her requests. Snaring her by the collar, Lee dragged her a few feet from the rancid puddles, scooping up the basket and beer can along the way. For the first time since being tossed into this hell pit, she noticed that Karofsky was still there with her, lurking at the outskirts. She started to say his name, to make some sort of appeal to him, but another pungent liquid began to seep onto her breast. When she glanced up in confusion, Lee emptied the remainder of his beer into her face. She hissed and rubbed at her stinging eyes with the heel of her palm. After a moment, Lee stayed her hand and blotted something soft on her closed lids. She cowered from him, but he continued to dry her off with the familiar-smelling cloth. Cautiously, she peered at him through blurred, itchy vision and saw that he was holding the sash from Brittany's gypsy costume. Her expression must have been a dead giveaway.

"You want it?" he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking as he offered her the sash.

Santana did want it. She wanted to snatch it from the monster whose vile hands didn't deserve even to touch it. But she was too scared to reach out or let him know he held something of importance to her. When she looked at him mutely, he brought the fabric to his nose and sniffed the peppermint body mist that was Brittany's fragrance of the week.

"Nice," he said, coiling the sash around Santana's neck as if it were a scarf. Crouching beside her, he took a whiff at the surrounding air and, deeming it acceptable, rummaged through the basket at his feet. He picked out a couple of hair barrettes and chucked them into the dark crevices under the lower bleachers. "You've got a lot of crap in here, Lo. Most of it's pretty boring, but—" Suddenly, like a little boy who had discovered the toy surprise in a box of cereal, he brandished a miniature pack of Sour Patch Kids. "Can I have these?"

Santana continued to stare. Now that her body wasn't under attack, the full extent of her injuries had begun to set in. It was all she could do to remain conscious.

Lee tucked the candy in his pocket. "Anyway, like I was saying. There is this one thing I found really, really interesting..." His hand disappeared into the basket again, revealing the humidor and flask an inch at a time. The dual container was the shape and length of a cigar and twice as wide. Its silver finish glinted in a slant of light from between the bleacher tiers. "Russell Fabray," he said, enunciating slowly as he squinted at the engraved side. He leveled it in front of Santana's face, too close for her eyes to focus on the name. "Huh. Now, what in the world are you doing with something that belongs to Quinn's daddy? And what the hell is it?" The outer cap popped off as he fiddled with it, and he stuck his finger in the cigar hole, then unscrewed the flask lid and tipped the whole thing upside-down to check that it was empty. He waited patiently for an answer.

"It's a flask," Santana whispered, her voice brittle, crackling. She couldn't get it to stop shaking. "And cigar holder."

"Ah. Neat." He resealed the container and tapped it lightly on her thigh. "You didn't steal this, did you?"

"No."

"So, Mr. Fabray gave it to you? Don't tell me you're one of his mistresses." As Lee spoke, he trailed the cylinder along Santana's outstretched leg. "I knew you slept around, but I didn't think you were a home wrecker."

Santana tried to bring her legs together and fold them beneath her, but it was too painful. "It's Quinn's. She spiked the punch." The secret seemed so trivial now. There were much worse things than detention or getting suspended for a few days.

"With this? Nobody's going to get buzzed from what you can store in here..." He turned the tube over and over in his hands, tested the heft of it in his palm. Balancing it between his index fingers, he asked, "What would you say that is? Seven inches?" He suspended it vertically in the air. "Kind of phallic if you ask me."

"Just let me go home," Santana said quietly, avoiding his gaze. Her flesh crawled as he went on prodding and stroking with his new souvenir. "I won't tell anyone what happened. I promise. I'll say it was a stranger. I'll—" She was babbling, the words reaching a shrill pitch when the rounded silver tip circled her breasts, then slid down her abdomen. It brushed the inside of her thigh, and she pushed it away. But Lee kept putting it back, obviously enjoying the shoving match that ensued.

"Come on, man," Azimio said, peeling off the latex gloves and blowing into his cupped hands. "Let's get out of here. It's too cold for you to be dicking around."

"We're staying until everyone's had his turn," said Lee.

"Aw, shit, screw Karofsky. That homo already had his chance. If we gotta wait on him to get it up, we'll be here all night."

"Oh, right. Him," Lee murmured, his voice low enough for only Santana to hear. He flipped at the pleats of her skirt with the end of the flask. When she almost knocked it from his hand, he seized her upper arm and hauled her off the ground in one frighteningly swift movement. She staggered alongside him, tripping on her own feet as he took several long strides towards Karofsky. Halting, Lee threw her against the other boy's chest, leaving him little choice but to catch her. "Well, I'm a fair guy. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. So, Karofsky's gonna have another go. If he can pull it off, I'll believe him when he says he isn't a faggot. If he can't, we'll toss him a big coming out party tomorrow during lunch."

Santana groaned into Karofsky's letterman jacket as he struggled to keep her upright. She was dead weight in his arms, and her head lolled when she tipped it back to look at him. His face hovered above hers, eyes brimming with tears. But regret wasn't the only emotion she saw there; he was conflicted, too. After a futile attempt to control her rag doll limbs, she rested her cheek against him with a weary sigh, and asked, "Dave?"

"What'll it be, Dave?" Lee echoed impatiently.

Glancing from Santana's dirt-encrusted face to Lee's menacing one, Karofsky gave a helpless shrug and shook his head as if they expected too much. "I..."

He hesitated a moment longer than he should have.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Lee said in an exasperated tone. "Are you so incredibly gay you don't even know how to fuck a girl? Okay, look, I'll teach you how it works." Grabbing the hood of Santana's cloak, he ripped her from Karofsky's arms and dumped her at his feet. It might have been excruciating, had she the time to comprehend it. But Lee was instantly on top of her, drowning out the rest of the world with his tall, athletic frame. His hands were everywhere at once—smothering her cries, bending her body to his will. Though she was vaguely aware of him speaking to Karofsky ("It's really easy. If you can't get a hard-on, just use something else. Here, Russell Fabray will show you what I mean"), none of it made sense until she _felt_ it:

White-hot jolts of pain from pelvis to abdomen...

Breath gone...

Can't scream...

God, it hurts so bad...

As the skewering motion continued below, Santana disconnected from that half of her body. She split herself in two, focusing only on what she could access from the waist up. Air. That was one thing. She guzzled it into her lungs, then released it in a scream that lasted until her voice gave out. But Lee denied her that power as well, muffling the sound beneath his palm. So she let him have her. Retreating into her mind—the one safe, untouchable place she had left—she slipped free of the shell that belonged to him now, and became a spectator with the rest of the boys. That wasn't her writhing, sobbing, bleeding in the dirt while Lee twisted and rutted with the flask. Santana didn't know who that poor girl was, but she pitied her.

And she cheered when Karofsky finally pushed Lee off the girl, his face contorting as he removed the gory flask. She waited for him to pick the small girl up—carefully, of course, because she looked so battered, so broken—and rush her somewhere warm and comforting; somewhere people who loved her might still be able to piece her back together. But her anticipation turned to outrage as he tossed the flask at Lee and said, "Fine, I'll do it! Jesus Christ! I'll do it if you just... just keep your mouth shut."

_Pathetic, fucking coward_, she thought. _You are a sick, fucking loser who's worse than all of them. You were supposed to help her. You could have stopped this. I hope you burn in hell_.

Santana blinked up at Karofsky when he dropped on top of her. Their eyes met as he began to rock. He, too, was under the same impression as his buddies: that manhood should be proven by violent thrust. Try as she might to separate herself from the brutality like she had a moment ago, something kept her tethered to her body and the solid ground beneath it. Something in his eyes told her she needed to hold on with an iron fist. "Stop looking at me like that," he grunted. But she had nowhere else to look. She memorized everything—the beads of sweat on his forehead, the dark slashes that were his eyebrows, the way his lip curled up in concentration. And the image that seared itself in her brain, the last thing she believed she'd ever see: his merciless expression as he caught both ends of the sash around her neck, and pulled them tight. "It's your fault," he was saying while he strangled her. "It's your fault."

"What the fuck are you doing? You're going to kill her."

"Aw, shit, man. She's turning blue. I'm getting the fuck out of here."

"You stupid asshole, let her go! What the hell is wrong with you? I'm not going to prison for this."

"Is she breathing? Somebody check her pulse."

"I'm not touching her. She looks dead. I'm leaving. I have to go."

"Me, too. Come on, Karofsky. You're in deep shit. Just... I don't know—forget about her."

The boys scattered like autumn leaves from a windswept bough. Under the bleachers another draft ruffled the girl's red cloak, but not a soul looked back to see it fluttering farewell.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you for the chapter one reviews, guys. I know it's a dark and heavy topic, and believe me, it hasn't been easy to write. But I really do appreciate your readership and feedback. Hope you like chapter two. Happy Halloween!**  
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><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO<strong>

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><p>Sue Sylvester practically rubbed her hands together with glee as she marched across the football field. She had been counting on the McKinley students to leave behind a scrap of evidence from last night's Halloween festivities, and the little hooligans hadn't let her down. It didn't matter that the rest of the turf was immaculate. When she had entered the gate reserved for the groundskeeper—she copied his key years ago in order to do these break of dawn inspections at her leisure—her sights immediately zeroed in on a flash of red by the bleachers. A misplaced glove or a stray flier, perhaps. For Sue, an opportunity to torment Figgins. She had nothing against the man, but if she were to maintain her legendary and formidable status at the school, there must always be something to wage war upon. Today it would be the celebration of satanic holidays which incited children to destroy campus grounds, creating safety hazards for her Cheerios.<p>

Invigorated by the crisp morning air, she inhaled deeply and congratulated herself on being an evil genius. But her good humor disappeared the moment she reached for the wadded red fabric beside her Adidas cross trainers. She recognized the color and brand even before the Spankies unraveled between her pinched fingers; both had been chosen after hours of deliberation by her own meticulous eye. This pair, however, was a crumpled, muddied disgrace. And God only knew what kind of perverted sexual escapades put it here. Scowling, she checked the tag for initials, but found none. She examined the size next, ticking off in her head which one of her girls had measurements this small. Most of them were exceptionally fit, but only a handful were slender enough to wear the coveted XS: Chyler, Zoë, Santana, Amy... Whoever the owner turned out to be, she was about to get stripped of her Cheerios title, that was certain. And Sue would find out one way or another. If it meant tacking up the underwear like a Wanted poster on the school bulletin board, she would do so.

Now that she had a real score to settle, she lost interest in nitpicking the field. However, Figgins would still get an earful about that gate left open by the bleachers. She headed towards it, eager to prepare her office for an interrogation that would strike fear in the hearts of four skinny teenage girls. But as she rounded the bleachers, she caught another glimpse of crimson from the corner of her eye. She turned abruptly, her anger flaring when the first thing she spotted was the red, white and black stripes of a Cheerios skirt. It took her a few seconds to realize there was a person inside the skirt, and a second more for her to recover from the shock and jog over to check on them. The long black hair splayed around the girl's head made her easy to identify as Sue approached, but the other features barely resembled Santana Lopez. "Oh, sweet Jesus," Sue said, her blood running cold as she surveyed the girl's pulverized form. Beneath the grime that coated her once pretty face, Santana was ghostly pale. The only color on her cheeks were rosy smears that appeared to be some kind of paint. Her uniform and the cloak that swathed her shoulders were in tatters and looked like they had been dragged through the muck. Sue tried not to gaze beyond the tousled pleats—bunched in her hand was a pair of underwear that told her everything she needed to know—but Santana's parted thighs made it impossible to miss the bruises and dark splotches of dried blood. Her legs looked so frail in their filthy white knee-socks, and Sue wondered if they had always been like that. A shoe was missing.

Sue knelt beside the girl, hands hovering near her small body for a moment, afraid to touch. She had dealt with a lot of injuries over the years, but the cheerleaders who sustained them were usually conscious and putting up a fuss. None of them were ever this still, this lifeless. "Santana?" she said, a tremor in her voice. She started to feel for a pulse, then drew back when she noticed the florid mark around Santana's neck. Instead, Sue reached for the slender, white wrist that poked out from underneath the cloak. When she lifted it slightly, Santana stirred and gave a pitiful little moan. Sue gasped in surprise, heartbeat thundering in her ears. Instinctively, she began to comfort Santana with a pat on the arm, but that agitated the girl even more; as the cloak fell away, Sue understood why. Bent at an odd angle and swollen inside its dusty sleeve, the arm was almost certainly broken.

Santana muttered something that sounded like "don't" and continued moving her lips without forming words. She quaked from head to toe.

"It's Coach Sylvester, Santana. Can you hear me?" Sue leaned closer, hoping her tone was as soothing as she intended. It occurred to her that she had never spoken gently to the girl before. In all fairness, she rarely spoke gently to anyone, but the realization filled her with guilt. Sometimes, in her haste to shape the best and brightest cheerleaders Ohio had to offer, she forgot that the girls on her squad weren't much more than babies. And that was especially hard to remember when a teen as precocious and strong-willed as Santana came along. There didn't seem to be an ounce of vulnerability in her body. Until now.

As Sue searched for a way to pick her up without causing additional pain, Santana's eyelids flickered open. She blinked rapidly, struggling to focus, and when her drifting gaze finally landed on Sue, both eyes widened in terror. She shrank from Sue's outstretched hands, turning her face away and uttering soft mewling noises that were unmistakable as pleas not to be touched.

"I won't hurt you," Sue said thickly. She swallowed hard, sickened by what she imagined Santana must have gone through to end up so afraid of even a helping hand. Forcing the thoughts from her mind, she got to her feet, sat the girl forward and, ignoring the faint protests, scooped her off the ground. Sue's joints creaked, her back and knees threatening to give out; but with a few grunted attempts, she managed to stand, Santana cradled tightly to her chest. "I know. I'm sorry," she said when the girl groaned at being jostled around. "We need to get you someplace warm, though. You're freezing. Hold on just a minute."

"No," Santana said, the first clear word to come out of her mouth. She pushed on Sue's shoulder several times, then collapsed against it when she didn't have the strength to shove it away. Her head drooped into the crook of neck nearby. Little by little she relaxed, though the shivering did not cease. Pressing her cold nose into warm skin, she asked, "Mama?"

The confused, childlike timbre made Sue's heart ache more than anything else had since the death of her sister. It didn't help that Santana was dressed like Little Red Riding Hood, one of Jean's favorite storybook characters. "No, honey, it's not Mama," said Sue, tears pricking her eyes as she used the pet name that had always been reserved for Jean alone. Her big sister was the kindest, most loving soul Sue had ever known—she wouldn't mind sharing. "It's Coach Sylvester."

Shifting restlessly again, Santana buried her face in Sue's track jacket and started to cry. "I'm sorry, Coach," she mumbled, and went on slurring apologies that were harder to decipher.

"Why, honey? What do you have to be sorry for?" Sue asked distractedly. Her breath came in short, visible puffs as she trudged out of the fence and along the path towards the parking lot. If her fears were correct and Santana had been lying there under the bleachers overnight—oh God, the frost on the windshield this morning—hypothermia was inevitable. She wanted to keep the girl alert and talking.

"Ruined my uniform. Don't kick me off the squad."

"You kidding? You're my number one Cheerio. I'm not letting you get away again." Sue gave the girl a reassuring pat on the hip, gently hefting her. Few freshmen received the elusive invitation to join Cheerios, but when Sue had spied a svelte, raven-haired fourteen-year-old impressing a friend with back walkovers during gym class three years ago, she'd made an exception. Since that very first weigh-in, Santana was one of the most consistent on the scales, never surpassing a hundred and five pounds. Slight, yes; easy to carry over a long distance, no. But Sue did her damnedest. "We'll order you a new uniform," she added.

"He peed on it," Santana said with a tinge of anger, her tears subsiding.

Sue detected the rank smell of urine—and beer—wafting off the girl, but hadn't considered that it came from someone else. "Bastard," she snarled for her own benefit. Losing her temper wouldn't do any good, though. She needed to keep a cool head for Santana's sake. Still, she had to know: "Who was it? Who did this to you?"

"Cowboy..."

"That was his costume? A cowboy?" Inwardly, Sue cursed herself for telling Figgins she couldn't chaperone because she was filming a "Sue's Corner" exposé on haunted houses. In reality, she stayed at home and had a Hitchcock marathon in the dark, glaring daggers at her front door every time a trick-or-treater failed to take the hint and rang the bell. If she had attended the Halloween festival, maybe she would have seen the cowboy. Maybe she would have been able to prevent this altogether.

"He m-made me... h-he made me..." More distressed with each repetition, Santana finally shuddered and dissolved into quiet sobs, clutching at the zipper of Sue's jacket.

"It's okay, shh. You don't have to tell me." Sue nestled her cheek in Santana's dingy hair, feeling painfully inadequate at providing any sort of comfort. Even with Jean, she had felt clunky and awkward at the motherly tasks. She was better at coaxing a smile or scaring off the boogeyman than at drying tears. Both skills were useless now—Santana had already met her boogeyman, and she probably wouldn't be smiling for a long, long time.

"I threw up," Santana said woefully, "and they laughed."

"They?" Sue almost stopped dead in her tracks, but her SUV was just a few yards away, the lone vehicle in sight. Soon the empty lot would be bustling with teachers and students, privacy gone. She forged ahead, a sour taste in her mouth as she asked, "There was more than one?"

Santana took a deep, stuttering breath. "Four," she sighed.

_Jesus_.

"Did they all... hurt you?"

A small noise, but no answer.

"Tell me who they were."

Santana shook her head vehemently and tried to wriggle out of Sue's arms. "I want my dad."

"Santana, calm down." Sue scolded herself for speaking in the stern voice of Coach Sylvester, but it did snap the girl out of her increasing panic. For the first time, she seemed aware of her surroundings. She gazed up with drowsy, bloodshot eyes.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," Sue said a bit more lightly. "Your dad will meet us there, okay?"

"And my mom?"

"Yes, honey, your mom too."

"'Kay." Santana gave a resigned nod and let her head rest on Sue's shoulder.

Clearing the distance from curb to SUV in two long strides, Sue paused outside the driver's side door and swore under her breath. She had forgotten it was locked, the keys tucked away in her pocket where she couldn't reach them. At least not with the bundle in her arms. "I need you to stand up for a minute," she said, disguising it as a simple request so Santana might not view it as such a challenge. Fat chance of that. The girl was shaking like a leaf and barely had the strength to hold her eyelids apart. Nevertheless, Sue had to ask. "You can do that, right?"

"I think so..."

"Sure you can. Ready?" Moving to the back door, Sue eased Santana down next to it, keeping a firm grip around her waist. "Hold onto my arm," she said when Santana hesitated to take it, as if permission were required to touch the trio of white stripes running up the sleeve. Under different circumstances, that probably would have been true. "Go ahead and lean on me if you want. You're doing great."

Continuing the encouragement, Sue fished the keychain out of her pants pocket and unlocked the door. As she was opening it, Santana's knees buckled. Sue hurried to steady her, dropping keys and underwear in the process. She left them on the ground to get Santana situated in the backseat, but the girl balked at being lifted inside.

"My underwear," Santana fretted.

"I'll pick them up. Let me get you in here first."

"I want them on."

Sue started to say that it wasn't necessary—upon arrival at the hospital, one of the first things to go into an evidence bag would be those red Spankies. But she thought better of it when she saw the distress on Santana's smudged, weary face. Let the girl believe, at least for a little while, that her body was her own again.

Sticking out her sneaker, Sue nudged the underwear closer, stretched down to grab them, and shook them off. She held them by either side of the waistband, instructing Santana to lean on her shoulder as she bent over and guided one socked foot and one Mary Jane into the holes. Her thoughts returned to Jean, the only other person she'd ever helped in this way. But she dismissed the image of her sister as she glanced at Santana's legs. They looked like they had been through a war of their own: raw knees, frayed skin at the edges; various scrapes and gashes that stood out in scarlet relief; thighs bound in chains of dark bruises, each link the size of a fingertip. The knee-sock that hadn't pooled at the ankle was currently absorbing a trickle of blood from a much higher source. Sue slid the underwear up with caution, but Santana sucked in a breath and stiffened when both hands approached her skirt. Allowing Santana to take over, Sue turned her head, still hunched forward with an arm around the girl's waist to keep her balanced.

"Got it?" Sue asked after a moment.

"Yes."

Good thing, too, because she was sagging towards the asphalt with each passing second. Sue hoisted her into the vehicle, careful of her head and injured arm, but it was the sitting down that made Santana whimper in pain. She avoided eye contact and resisted lying flat against the wide backseat when Sue urged it. She tugged at the pleats of her skirt and the mangled black lace underneath, but couldn't conceal her thighs with either. Hastily, Sue unzipped her jacket, then wished she hadn't when Santana jerked away from the sound. Taking it off anyway, she draped it over the girl's lap and said, "I'll be right up front."

Hollow gaze fixed straight ahead, Santana didn't answer. Sue closed the door and snatched her keys off the ground. Moments later, heat blazing from the air vents, and her Bluetooth headset in place, she whipped out of the parking lot just as another car pulled in. She cast quick glances in the rearview mirror every few seconds as she waited for Kathy Eibling, director of nursing at Lima Memorial Hospital, to answer the phone. There were several perks to being a local celebrity, including the connections formed with influential people. Sue had struck up a friendship with Kathy after a particularly scathing "Sue's Corner" about the unfair treatment of nurses in the workplace. On occasion, she did like to use the segment as something other than a means for destroying archenemy, Will Schuester. And while she harbored no great sympathy for the plight of nurses, they were the ones who took care of her sister for years. She received well over eighty fan letters from that piece, but it was Kathy's call to the station, requesting to meet and personally thank her, which impressed Sue the most. They bonded instantly, due to their similar take-no-prisoners attitudes and mutual love of Madonna. Even better, Kathy had a preteen daughter who aspired to be a Cheerio in a couple of years—and Mom wasn't above bribery. "Anything you ever need, Sue," she said on a regular basis.

_Get ready to keep your word, Kathy_.

"Hello?" the nurse asked on the fourth ring.

"Kathy," Sue said brusquely. "Sue Sylvester. I've got a situation here. I'm on my way to the hospital now with one of my girls. Found her unconscious under the school bleachers about five minutes ago. She's in bad shape. I'm guessing hypothermia and a broken arm at least." Gaze darting to the mirror again, she lowered her voice a bit. "It looks like sexual assault. From what she said, I think there was more than one attacker."

"Oh, my God."

"Exactly. If you've got any strings on that end, start pulling."

"Of course, yes. Bring her to the emergency bay. I'll have people waiting. Dr. McNamara's in today, and she's the best—"

"Shit." Sue stopped short of banging her fist on the steering wheel. "I didn't even remember till you said that. Kathy, she's Dr. Lopez's daughter."

One evening, months earlier, after a few too many glasses of wine turned their dinner party into a tipsy game of Truth or Dare, Kathy confessed to Sue that if she ever had a fling at work, Gary Lopez was her first choice. According to the nurse, all the single women on staff—and, like Kathy, some of the married ones—had their eye on the devilishly handsome doctor. The only drawbacks were his gorgeous wife and their beautiful daughter, both of whom Dr. Lopez cherished.

Kathy gasped. "Oh, no! Oh, my God, I've seen pictures of her in his office. He loves to brag about her."

"She was asking for him. If you could let him know we're coming in..."

"I'll see what I can do. Poor man will be devastated."

Sue nodded grimly. "Thanks," she said, and hoped the relief wasn't too evident in her tone. She didn't like dealing with parents on a good day. Her stomach turned at the mere idea of breaking the news to a father that his little girl might have been gang raped.

After saying goodbye to Kathy and discarding the headset, Sue peered at Santana's reflection. The girl hadn't made a sound since they pulled away from the school. Her glazed stare was disconcerting. If not for the teeth-rattling chills that went through her at intervals, she would have looked like a statue. "Hanging in back there?" Sue asked. "Tell me if you need the vents adjusted."

The only reply was a sluggish blink.

Normally Sue would call a silent, passive teenager a blessing, but now it made her anxious. Although she'd never admit it, there were moments when she actually enjoyed talking to Santana. Not many seventeen-year-old girls could hold their own against Sue in a verbal sparring, but Santana was just sharp-tongued enough to try. Sue admired that quality. That sass was the main reason Santana stood out to her more than most of the other cheerleaders.

Fingers clenching the wheel, Sue asked, "Were they students?"

She got no answer—hadn't really expected one—and stifled a frustrated sigh. She didn't want to push, but she did want to find the little shits who were responsible for this. Maybe wring their necks with her bare hands, too. Or at least be able to give Figgins their names so they weren't wandering the halls, free as you please. She considered phoning him anyway, then decided it could wait a while longer. Well-meaning as he was, Figgins had a knack for botching things up. And despite her past dabbling in law enforcement, Sue knew she didn't have any true authority. The police would be involved soon, and she wasn't going to let anyone, including herself, get in their way.

Santana still hadn't spoken when they arrived at the hospital minutes later. Assisted by Sue, Dr. McNamara and a young female nurse, she moved from the vehicle to a wheelchair without acknowledging their greetings or their questions. She kept Sue's track jacket draped over her legs, the collar balled in her fist.

"Does she need parental consent to be treated?" Sue walked alongside Dr. McNamara, who had just explained that Gary Lopez, busy in surgery, couldn't be reached yet.

The doctor, a petite woman with auburn hair and a kind face, shook her head. "Not if she was sexually assaulted." She ushered Sue inside the private room the nurse wheeled Santana into, and closed the door behind them. With measured steps, she approached the wheelchair and knelt beside it, a gentle smile in place, though Santana didn't turn to see it. "Sweetheart, I know you've been through a lot and you'd probably rather be left alone, but it's very important for you to let us help you right now. No one will force you to say or do anything you don't want to. But before I can start taking care of you, I do have to ask... were you sexually assaulted?"

Sue watched with a twinge of envy as the woman addressed Santana in a warm, compassionate manner, making it seem so easy. This was the type of person who should have found the girl to begin with, Sue thought. Convinced she had somehow triggered Santana's lapse into silence, she decided to slip from the room. But she froze when Santana glanced up at her, instead of at the doctor.

The surest way to tell a loyal Cheerio from a fake was whether or not she sought her coach's approval above everyone else's—Sue had drummed that idea into her girls countless times over the years. Only now did she realize how well Santana had learned it. Tilting her head towards the doctor, she encouraged Santana to respond.

After several false starts, Santana gave up trying to say it out loud and simply nodded.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie," said Dr. McNamara, her blue-gray eyes filled with sympathy. "Is it okay if I take a look at you? We'll see what your injuries are, and with your permission, I'll collect evidence of the assault. I'll explain everything as we go, and if you need me to stop at any time, you just say the word."

A pinched, tormented expression passed over Santana's face. With reluctance, she nodded again.

"All right." Dr. McNamara rose to her feet and signaled for the nurse to prepare the room. "I've got a consent form for you to sign, and then we'll get you into a gown. Also, we've been having some trouble locating your mom. Is there another number to call besides the one in your dad's emergency contacts?"

Santana twitched her shoulder in a small half-shrug. "You won't get her if she's in the studio," she said, her voice paper-thin and difficult to hear. "She's an artist. Turns the phone off while she works because it distracts her."

Sue had forgotten that detail about Santana's mother—a painter. _Figures_. She'd met the woman at a handful of school events and hadn't liked her once. Mrs. Lopez was entirely too charming, too beautiful for her own good; she looked and behaved more like Santana's older sister than her mother. And Sue didn't trust anyone who laughed that loudly that often. But the woman's laissez-faire approach to parenting bugged Sue the most. What kind of mother let her sixteen-year-old get breast implants? (_What kind of coach taunted a sixteen-year-old for being insecure enough with her body to get breast implants?_) Allowed her to leave the house dressed like that on the cusp of November? (_Encouraged her to dress like that no matter how cold the weather?_) Wasn't immediately by her side for the worst trauma of her life? (_Stood uselessly by the door and hoped to be excused?_)

"Oh, I see. Well, we'll keep trying." Dr. McNamara gazed at Sue for a moment, then back to Santana. "Is there someone else you'd like to have with you until your parents can be here?"

"Can Coach Sylvester stay?"

Sue steeled herself as Santana and Dr. McNamara looked her way. "Absolutely," she said, adding a resolute nod. Shuffling forward, she took up post next to Santana while the doctor went after some forms. Together they watched the nurse spread a large paper sheet on the floor where Santana would disrobe, losing her hard-earned uniform a piece at a time.

When no one was paying attention, Sue reached down and held Santana's hand.

xxx

"I know it's uncomfortable, sweetheart, but try and relax. I'm almost done."

Santana gritted her teeth and willed the doctor to shut up and finish stitching. The woman was a goddamned liar. For every hellacious step of the examination, she had described her actions in a sweet, benevolent tone, claiming each one wouldn't take long, wouldn't hurt much. But they did. Despite the painkillers and Dr. McNamara's soft touch, it felt like being trapped under the bleachers and ripped apart all over again. Plus, it was taking forever. For that, however, Santana blamed herself. So far she'd slowed the process with at least half a dozen anxiety attacks. Even the tiniest things set her off. When she smelled latex as the doctor's gloved fingers probed her neck, she threw up the warm liquids that—along with a heated IV—were raising her body temperature. She hadn't been able to keep anything down since, and she still shivered like a wet dog, though the numbness and cold were almost gone from her limbs.

If vomiting in front of her coach was embarrassing, her unstable emotions were twice as shameful. She burst into tears after holding her mouth open for the doctor to obtain a cheek swab. Sue had seen her cry before, but those were the petulant outbursts of someone who grew up getting exactly what she wanted by way of tantrums and crocodile tears. How childish that seemed now. The look on Sue's face said it all as Santana gave an account of the forced oral: that little girl didn't exist anymore.

And she nearly came undone while the nurse documented her injuries with a camera. No amount of warning prepared her for the flashes. She almost puked again as she wondered if Jacob would post the video today. Tomorrow? Who would watch it? Oh God, what if Brittany saw it? Pausing, Dr. McNamara waited for each flinch to pass so she could waken a whole new set of horrors with the speculum in her hand. At the sight of her standing there, silver instrument at the ready, Santana began to hyperventilate. It took them several minutes to calm her, and even then she couldn't explain why she'd reacted so strongly.

The flask was the first detail she omitted on purpose. Up to that point, her failure to mention the rapists' names hadn't been intentional. She just hadn't thought to assign them separate identities, their equally disgusting behavior combining them into a single cruel entity she referred to as "he" or "they." The doctor didn't pressure her for more, but Sue gave her hand light, goading squeezes every so often, like a mother prompting her child to greet a stranger. And when Santana described blacking out as Karofsky choked her with the sash, Sue's restraint disappeared altogether.

"You have to tell us who they were," she said urgently, though not harshly. "Give me names, and I'll take care of it."

"Ms. Sylvester," said Dr. McNamara, shaking her head and sounding less than pleasant for the first time.

Sue looked as though she might squash the doctor beneath her shoe like an ant, but a knock at the door broke the tension—for everyone besides Santana. A police officer had arrived, the nurse in the doorway murmured to Dr. McNamara. Santana's already taut nerves threatened to snap as she imagined talking to a cop, reliving the nightmare for yet another audience. The doctor's assurance that it could wait until she felt more up to it was little consolation. Without even meeting him, she began to resent the man who lingered in the hallway. He and the doctor were vultures picking over a carcass. Santana wanted him to take the bags of items scavenged from her body—uniform and costume, swabs from each orifice, head and pubic hair, even the fucking dirt under her fingernails—and leave her the hell alone. They all just needed to leave her the hell alone.

But Dr. McNamara was still busy mending the damage caused by Lee, Azimio, Karofsky and the flask. And after that, there were blood tests, urine samples, antibiotics and emergency contraception to look forward to. Exhausted by the thought of it, and nauseated by the sight of her legs spread apart in the stirrups, Santana sighed and glanced at Sue. In spite of the awkward moments, it was strangely comforting to have the coach at her bedside. Her sensitive, overemotional mother would have had a meltdown long ago. And though the questions about her sexual history were brief, answering in front of her father would have been impossible. She didn't have to be the strong one or pretend to be innocent with Sue.

"My parents are going to be so upset," she said, grimacing at the scratchiness in her voice and throat. She'd been having difficulty swallowing, too. Normal symptoms of strangulation, according to the doctor. Santana didn't bother asking if it would affect her permanently. Worrying about her future in glee club required too much energy. She had to focus on just getting through the next few minutes and hours. Besides, what did she have to sing about anymore?

"Yeah, they are." Sue sat forward in her chair, a solemn expression on her face. The hard, angry creases around her eyes and forehead were gone, replaced by something like tenderness. For the past hour or so, she had only let go of Santana's hand when necessary. "But that's not your fault. You put up one hell of a fight, and if I had a kid, I'd want her to do the exact same thing. They're just going to be glad you're..."

_Alive_, Santana thought.

"Okay," concluded Sue.

"That's right," said Dr. McNamara. Setting aside the suture needle and scissors, she helped Santana ease both legs out of the stirrups. "And if you'd prefer, I can speak with your parents before they come in. I'll explain your injuries to them, prepare them a little for what they'll see."

Santana nibbled nervously at the crusty skin on her bottom lip. She stopped when she remembered biting that spot while waiting for Jacob to make up his mind. "Do you have to tell them everything?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Don't tell my dad about the stitches," Santana said decidedly. "Or the bruises."

During the pelvic exam, the doctor, with one small shake of her head, had called the tears and bruising "extensive." Santana knew her father—the gynecologist—would be all too familiar with the injuries typical of rape victims; he had probably treated several himself. It might make this easier for him if he didn't know how badly she'd been hurt. There were plenty of other visible wounds to dazzle him with, anyway. Most noticeable was her right arm, now residing in a sling because proximal humerus fractures couldn't be cast. On top of the hoarseness, the sash had left an ever darkening ring around her neck; currently the shade of a ripe plum, it resembled one of those ugly chokers her mom wore in photos from the nineties. Her wrists, arms and inner thighs were decorated in similar hues, but none were so impressive as the starburst pattern, approximately the size of a Mary Jane heel, in the center of her chest. Luckily her ribs were bruised, not broken, said Dr. McNamara. Santana didn't see much of a distinction—every deep breath and shift of the torso was accompanied by stabbing pain. At least the concussion offset it with a throbbing headache. The ringing ears were maddening, though.

An itchy layer of dirt still clung to her face, hands, buttocks and legs, but it was the unseen, the sensation of _them_, that made her a captive in her own skin. She could feel them. Smell them. Taste them. As she was about to ask, yet again, when she'd be allowed to clean off, a knock at the door interrupted her. That would undoubtedly be her parents. Halfway through the rape kit, Dr. McNamara had been notified that Dr. Lopez was out of surgery. Intercepting the call to him, she used lots of vague, reassuring language and finally convinced him to go home, pick up his wife and bring Santana a change of clothes before rushing down to see her. Since then, Santana had dreaded their arrival. And sure enough:

"Dr. and Mrs. Lopez are here," said the nurse who poked her head into the room.

"All right, Patty. Let them know I'd like to speak with them in the hall for a moment first." Dr. McNamara discarded her gloves and straightened the blanket back over Santana's legs and feet. She offered a faint smile. "This won't take but a minute. And I'll be discreet."

Santana watched the door anxiously as the doctor and nurse—on her way to retrieve the drugs that would prevent STDs and pregnancy—stepped outside. She caught a glimpse of dark hair that might have been her mother's, but she wasn't sure. When Sue touched her shoulder, she flinched.

Sue drew her palm away with caution, then placed it over their joined hands. "I'll go when they come in," she said quietly, and gave Santana's knuckles a few absent strokes with her thumb. Full of questions, her blue eyes burned brighter than usual. She seemed to wrestle with indecision, but it didn't last long. "You tell someone who did this to you, Santana, you understand? If not me, then tell your parents or the police or that Sissy Spacek clone of a doctor, but you tell somebody. It will eat you up inside if you don't."

The coach sounded as if she spoke from experience, and Santana studied her closely, guardedly. It was hard to trust Sue. A couple hours of being nice didn't make up for the years of insults and punishments she'd meted out despite Santana's dedication to the Cheerios. This might be just another ploy to get the answers she wanted.

"Just say their names. I'll do everything in my power to make sure they pay for what they did." Sue looked more like her old, cutthroat self as she said, "Even if I have to string them up myself." Her intensity was a bit frightening. When she noticed Santana gazing at her with wide eyes, she quickly softened her tone and expression. "You don't have to be afraid of them now. They can't hurt you anymore."

_Oh yes, they can_, Santana thought. They had that awful video. At least if it only got posted on Jacob's blog or YouTube, the chances of her parents seeing it were slim. But what happened if there was a trial and the video ended up in court? She couldn't protect her parents from that. They would hear all the nasty things the boys said about her—some of it lies, but a lot of it true. She'd have to explain about losing her virginity at fifteen, and sleeping with three of the football players. Might as well make it four, since she lied so often about sex with Karofsky. No one would believe otherwise, based on the word of a dirty little "Mexican" skank. And then there were the references to her sexuality, which her parents didn't even know was in question. The idea of coming out to them had terrified her before any of this; now it was downright inconceivable. She couldn't be Gary and Estella Lopez's daughter: victim of gang rape, high school slut, and a dyke. It would destroy them. At the moment, she really needed them to love her.

"You said one was a cowboy," Sue pressed on. "Who wore that costume?"

Santana's head snapped up in surprise. She didn't recall mentioning the boys' costumes in her description of the attack, and she had no memory of a conversation with Sue prior to reaching the hospital. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, suddenly glad for her ravaged voice. Dishonesty was harder to detect in a whisper.

"Horseshit. You know damn well what I'm talking about." Sue's eyes glowed like the blue base of a flame—the hottest part. "Don't let them turn you into a spineless, cowering victim. You're stronger than that. Get mad as hell, not scared."

Santana wormed her hand out of Sue's grasp and tucked it away safely beneath her hip. Securing a tight lid on her emotions, she stared through Sue with a blank look. The coach was partly to blame after all. Her newspaper helped feed the rumors that stirred the boys' curiosity to begin with. Santana owed this woman nothing, and that's exactly what she would give her. "I don't remember," she said, feeling in control for the first time since Karofsky had lured her to the football field. No one could force her to be truthful.

Sue tugged at the bottom of her track jacket in frustration. She had slipped it on after Santana donned a hospital gown, but it remained unzipped. She looked less imposing with it open, her 2009 NHSCC shirt peeking from underneath. "Goddamn it," she sighed just before the doctor entered the room, Santana's parents following close behind. And while she still held Santana's gaze: "Think about what I said."

By the time Santana emerged from her parents' embrace, Sue had disappeared into the hall. None of the other adults seemed to notice, their attention focused entirely on Santana. She pushed the coach's advice to the back of her mind and sagged against her mother, who was weeping into her hair and apologizing for not being there sooner.

"God, baby, we didn't know. We didn't know," Estella murmured as she stroked Santana's back in a soothing, repetitive motion. She hadn't changed out of the oversized smock she loved to work in, a pink checkered monstrosity purchased at a thrift store when Santana was in kindergarten. Over the years, the smock had become a running joke in their family—Estella defended its honor by shielding both ears and babbling rebukes in loud Spanish as her husband and daughter teased her for wearing a 1950's maternity dress. Whenever she wandered through the house sporting the garment, Santana would call out, "Dad, Mom's knocked up again." To which the reply was usually, "Ask that floozy who the father is this time."

Santana buried her face in the smock and inhaled the scent of oil paint and turpentine. Her father complained that the solvent gave him headaches, but she had always found its pungency comforting. It was her mother's fragrance, and as she breathed it in now, it blocked out the bad smells she couldn't get rid of on her own. All at once, she lost the battle with tears and cried into her mother's chest, allowing herself to be rocked back and forth like an infant. Blindly she reached out and grabbed her father's white lab coat when she felt him stroke her hair.

"Why didn't you look for me last night?" she asked in the choked, stammering sobs she hadn't used since childhood. "Didn't you wonder where I was?"

"We thought you'd decided to stay over at Brittany's," Estella said almost as brokenly. She steadied her voice and elaborated for Dr. McNamara, as if the woman were a priest from whom she sought absolution: "They're best friends. Practically joined at the hip. I've told her a thousand times to let me know when she's going over there, but... she's seventeen. These days I try to just stay out of her way so she doesn't hate me." Her arms tightened protectively around Santana. "I'm so sorry, baby. I should've called to check."

Sobered by the mention of Brittany, Santana quieted to an occasional sniffle, then eased back and took a deep, shaky breath. "It's okay, Mom," she said stuffily. She was the envy of all her friends for having parents who granted her such independence; it would be unfair to whine about it now, especially when she abused her freedom on a regular basis. "Think I left my phone in Britt's car anyway. And I probably would've gone home with her if..."

_If I hadn't been lying under the bleachers like a piece of trash._

"How did this happen, _mija_?" Gary accepted a handful of tissues from the doctor, passed one to his wife, and dabbed at Santana's cheeks with another. His trembling hands belied his composure. He earned a living and supported a family with those hands—they never shook. "Where were your teachers? Your friends?"

"Everyone went on a hayride—"

"Why weren't you with them?" He sounded angry, but his eyes were fixated on the bruise around her neck. His fingers barely grazed it as he lifted the shabby remains of a pigtail to get a closer look.

"I forgot something in the gym and went to get it. When I came back outside... one of the guys stopped me to... talk." Santana caught her father's hand as he started to touch her face, the place where Jacob had been. She rested it in her lap, holding onto his fingers with hers. Then she moved it to the side a little. "People were laughing and being loud. I don't think anyone heard me yelling for help when he... I tried to run, but I wasn't fast enough. One of them tripped me, and I fell and hurt my arm. I couldn't get away after that. I tried, Daddy."

Estella covered her mouth with the tissue, fresh tears welling in her eyes. Gary had to clear his throat several times before he was able to speak. "I know you did, _mija_. I wasn't blaming you," he said huskily. He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed the ragged nails, even though they were filthy. "Never you. I just can't understand how someone would hurt you like this. You're my baby girl—" His features suddenly crumpled and he bowed his head, shoulders quaking as he held Santana's hand against his cheek. Teardrops dampened her palm, slid down her wrist. "I should've been there to protect you."

He wasn't a crier. In fact, he liked to poke fun at Santana and her mother for their tempestuous emotions, their ability to go from dry-eyed to a bucketful in seconds flat. Santana had only seen him break down twice: the first time, at her grandmother's funeral seven years earlier; the second, when their family dog, Bandido, got hit by a car and died in his arms on the way to the vet.

Did he equate rape with death? It might as well have been, with the knife Santana felt twisting in her heart.

"Dad, don't," she said, gritting her teeth and hunching over from the physical pain of watching him fall apart. "I can't take it."

With one look at his daughter's face, Gary instantly pulled himself together. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat rather than the leftover tissues—those he used to blot Santana's wet hand. When they came away dirty, he crushed them into a ball and pitched it at the wastebasket beside the bed. He smoothed her palm with his, then kissed it softly. "There were four of them," he said in a dark, level tone Santana didn't recognize, "the... boys who hurt you?"

She gave a faint nod.

"And you know all of them?"

Gazing hesitantly at each of the adults, she nodded again.

"Who are they?"

Santana believed what her father had said about not blaming her, but she feared the full story might change his mind. The grief he'd expressed just proved she couldn't burden him with the truth of who she really was—and that meant not revealing who the boys were, either.

"She's been a little reluctant to ID them," Dr. McNamara said, insinuating herself quietly when Santana didn't answer. "Which is normal, especially in cases of acquaintance rape. She may need some time to—"

"Time? Those sick SOB's are still out there, and my daughter's the one who has to sit here suffering? No. They don't deserve anymore fucking time."

"Gary." Estella put a hand on his arm, coffee-brown eyes widened in surprise. Her husband seldom swore or spoke out of turn to anyone, let alone a colleague.

"Look at her neck," he demanded of no one in particular. "The goddamned animals tried to kill her. If I ever get a hold of them, I'll break _their_ fucking necks." He muttered something in Spanish that didn't make sense to Santana until her mother blanched at the word "_castración_." His entire body was rigid with fury, except for the hands he cupped gently to either side of Santana's head. "_Mija_, I won't ever let them touch you again. Tell me who they were, and I'll have them arrested. Was that Puckerman boy involved? I never liked—"

The memory of being trapped in a headlock by Azimio slammed into Santana like a fist to the gut. "Stop it," she said shrilly, pushing her father away. Ignoring his wounded look, she continued shoving at his chest until he finally stepped back. "It wasn't Puck. They were just a bunch of guys you've never even heard of, okay?"

Wrong. He'd helped her cheer three of them on at every Titans' game he attended in the past few years; he played golf with Lee's dad at Shawnee Country Club each summer; and once, during a school fundraiser, he had laughed for five whole minutes when she told him not to get confused and try to perform a Pap smear on Jacob's head.

"And don't ask me who," she pleaded as his lips were already forming the question. "I don't want to talk about it right now." Her chin began to quiver, tears of exhaustion streaming down her cheeks as she turned to her mother for support. "I'm so tired, Mama. I feel disgusting, and everything hurts. I just wanna take a shower and go home and sleep. Please." Melting into the safety of her mother's embrace, she cried weakly against the smock and wore her voice out repeating that useless word: please.

Estella hushed her with a mixture of soft, lyrical Spanish and heavily accented English for several moments. It blended into a half-lullaby that almost put Santana to sleep then and there. "You don't have to talk about it, _mi niña preciosa_. Daddy and I will take you home as soon as the doctor says it's all right."

"Estella, she has to—"

"No!" Estella snapped. She rested a hand over Santana's exposed ear, the way she had when her daughter was too young to listen in on grownup discussions. "We are not forcing her to do something she isn't ready for. She's been tortured enough."

Drowsy and struggling to stay focused, Santana peeked up at her father from the cushion of her mother's breast. Normally he shook his head and chuckled something about feminine wiles when his two "brown-eyed girls" were gazing at him in unison, waiting for him to comply. But now he looked sad and defeated. "Later, then," he said, tentatively patting Santana's arm. "When you feel up to it."

"Later," Santana agreed.

_Never_, she hoped.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I planned to have this up by Sunday, but that didn't quite work out. Sorry for the delay. Also, I haven't studied Spanish in years, so I'm trying to use it sparingly... if it's horrible when it does appear, please don't judge me, lol. Thanks to all who read and reviewed chapter two. Especially ArmyOfWuh, who gave me one of the nicest reviews I've ever received. And I keep meaning to give my pal, Gleeks09, a shout-out: thank you for reading, thank you for your input, and thank you for putting up with all my crazy.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THREE<strong>

* * *

><p>"Miss you." Sue studied the blurry Polaroid a while longer, mouth quirked upwards at one corner. A pair of ragtag, towheaded girls in identical running shorts and tube socks, ugly blue and yellow roller skates strapped to their feet, beamed back at her. The tall, gangly one was holding tight to the little one's hand, making sure she didn't fall. They looked like they were having the time of their lives hamming it up for their aunt's brand new camera. They looked like they didn't know any evil existed in the world at all.<p>

Sighing, Sue touched two fingers to her lips, then pressed them to twelve-year-old Jean's smiling face before tucking the photo away in her desk drawer. Elbows propped on the desktop, she covered her own face with both hands and tried to silence the demons that had been her only companions since leaving Santana's hospital room. She did stop to talk with the cop and describe how she'd found the girl, but she was so antsy he kept giving her funny looks. Or maybe she imagined that. The sight of Santana's parents, brokenhearted, horror etched on their features as they drifted by in a daze, shook Sue to the core. After she stepped into the hall and shut the door, she could still hear Estella Lopez's tearful apologies to her daughter. Perhaps Sue had misjudged the woman. She was glad Santana had a mother who cared—that would be essential to the girl's recovery in the days, weeks, and even years to come.

Sue hadn't fared as well in the mom department, but her sister more than compensated. On the short drive from Lima Memorial back to the high school, she held herself together with just the thought of seeing Jean in that forty-year-old photograph. Now, though, seated in her empty, quiet office, she discovered it wasn't enough to ward off the other images haunting her mind. Her eyes snapped open when Santana's lost and shattered expression flashed before her. God, she needed a drink.

She gazed around the room, trying to remember if she had anything stronger than protein powder stashed in the file cabinet or beneath the trophy case. As she was considering a trip to the teachers' lounge to raid the thermos of astronomy teacher—and WMHS's resident lush—Brenda Castle, the office door swung open and Becky Jackson came bounding in.

"There you are, Coach," she said in a reprimanding tone, as if Sue were a puppy who had strayed from home. "I was about to form a posse and hunt you down."

Becky's progress since joining the Cheerios was a deep source of pride for Sue. She'd watched the girl go from a shy outcast to one of the most popular members of the squad, developing quite an attitude along the way. Usually she encouraged this behavior, but as she studied the girl's crisp, spotless uniform and saucy hand-on-hip pose, she became annoyed. "Haven't I told you to knock?" she asked sharply. "This is my private space, not a slumber party you can barge in on anytime you like."

Confidence gone in an instant, Becky stared down at her white sneakers, weight shifting from one foot to the other. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

Sue scrubbed at her cheeks in irritation, literally itching to throw something across the room. _You make Joan Crawford look like Mother of the Year, you hulking blondezilla bitch_, she thought. _Coachie Dearest. _

"Don't listen to me. It's... the menopause," she said out loud, with a dismissive wave.

"Men oh what?"

"Never mind. What do you want?"

Becky glanced up uncertainly and nudged at her glasses. "I wanted to know if we could eat lunch together later. I want to tell you about my Halloween costume."

"Oh." Sue gave the girl an absentminded smile and did her best to sound regretful. "Afraid I'll have to take a rain check on that one. I'm swamped today." She shuffled some of the papers around on her desk to appear busy. "But I bet your costume is fantastic."

"It was." Becky perked up, her pale, wispy bob swishing as she nodded vigorously. "Everyone said I looked great. Even Santana told me she liked it."

Pretending to read a pamphlet on tanning options from the newest salon in town, Sue only half-listened to the girl's chatter. By the time it sunk in, Becky had taken the hint and turned to go. "Hey. Wait a minute," Sue said, shoving back from the desk and standing so abruptly her chair continued to roll by itself. "When did you talk to Santana? Were you at the festival last night?"

"Uh-huh. My mom let me stay extra late for the hayride. It was awesome. We played games and told scary stories, and I ate so much candy I almost barfed. We—"

"That's great, Becky. Did you happen to see anyone in a cowboy costume?" Sue paced the length of the room, her thoughts racing.

"Alicia was dressed like a cowgirl. She had pink boots—"

"What about the boys? Did you see a cowboy?"

Becky tilted her head, one side of her face scrunched in concentration. Just as Sue was on the brink of losing her patience, the girl said, "Jacob was a cowboy. And another boy was a cow. He had udders." She rolled her eyes and giggled.

"Jacob Ben Israel?" Sue asked incredulously, halting in front of the girl.

"Yep."

"Did he go on the hayride?"

"I don't think so..."

Sue thrust both hands in her pockets, checking the urge to take Becky by the shoulders. Her usual intimidation tactics wouldn't get a straight answer out of the girl. "Did you notice him hanging around any other boys last night? It's really important, so try to remember."

"Umm... he sat on the bleachers with some football players during flashlight tag. I didn't see him after that."

"Which football players?"

"I think one was Dave." Becky shrugged. "I only saw their jackets."

A jock and a nerd. Now there was an unlikely duo. The social lives of students interested Sue about as much as listening to Schuester spew his inspirational claptrap; but even she knew Karofksy never approached Jacob unless armed with a slushie. As a matter of fact, Jacob didn't associate with any football players besides Azimio...

Eyeing Becky for a moment, Sue decided the unwitting little informant had done her job. It was time to go extract answers from a source who would be much more satisfying to torture. She ruffled Becky's hair, and said, "Good work, stoolie."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. You just made my day a whole lot better." Sue ushered the girl out of the office, closing the door behind them. "Tell you what, next week you and I are eating lunch together everyday. Right now I have some business to attend to, so I'll see you later." She was already buzzing down the hall before Becky could respond, but she called over her shoulder, "Oh, what was your costume?"

"Tinker Bell!"

"My favorite." Sue flashed a thumbs-up as she rounded the corner.

Actually, her favorite _Peter Pan _character, the one she identified with most, was Captain Hook. She knew how it felt to dwell in a land inhabited by children who never aged, and to have her plans constantly foiled by a perpetual boy with golden curls. Today, though, her mission was to rescue the silent, haughty Tiger Lily, not leave her on the rocks to drown.

_Lost Boys, here I come. _

At the beginning of semester, Sue had started keeping tabs on the class schedules of her entire _Muckraker_ staff—always best to have a reporter at the ready in case of breaking news. As she stormed towards the biology classroom where Jacob should be right about now, she tried to fathom how he could be capable of rape. He was a miserable pipsqueak of a boy. Then again, he was also the boy she had caught fully nude and masturbating in the school library. The kind of boy who blackmailed girls for their underwear and attempted to grope their ass without permission. Sue found his behavior revolting, but chalked it up to normal adolescent hormones. Why had she ignored all the warning signs? Worse yet, she'd used his perversion for her own twisted purposes, like it was a fucking game. This was on her head, too.

But Jacob hadn't acted alone. It came as no surprise that Karofksy might be involved. He had a history of violence—death threats even—and while there wasn't an obvious connection between him and Jacob, the football star spent plenty of time with Santana. Apparently they were dating, although something about the relationship seemed off to Sue. Two of the most notorious bullies in school didn't just decide to reform without a good reason. Love was the least plausible explanation on the list.

Sue fumed as she thought about the stocky athlete forcing himself on Santana. Poor girl hadn't stood a chance, especially if the other two boys were football players as well. At seventeen, Sue had hated being so much larger than her schoolmates, but these days she saw it as an advantage. And now she relished the idea of giving a few overgrown teenage boys a lesson in picking on someone their own size.

Pausing outside the classroom door, she peered through the observation window long enough to spot that god-awful shrub Jacob referred to as hair. It galled her to see him sitting there, studiously bent over a test tube as if nothing were wrong. When he looked up and grinned at his female lab partner, Sue threw open the door and barreled inside. Without a word to Charles Good, an old codger whose slouch inspired whispers of the Crooked Man nursery rhyme among his fellow teachers, she headed for Jacob, clamped a hand to the nape of his neck and steered him from the room.

"Wh-what's going on?" he gasped, stumbling to keep up with her quick strides.

"Have a good time at the festival last night, did you, Jacob?" Sue dug her fingers into pimply flesh and gave the boy a small jerk when he began to squirm. She wanted to lift him by the scruff and pitch him against the lockers like the barn cat her father had once disposed of similarly—her first and last childhood pet.

"I wasn't there. I stayed home to watch my little brother."

"Well, that's strange, because I've talked to a couple people who saw you wearing a cowboy costume and hanging out by the bleachers."

Jacob's pasty complexion turned a shade whiter. "She's lying," he said, voice cracking. His shoulder clipped the wall and he bounced into Sue as she led him around the corner, cutting it too sharply on purpose.

"Didn't say anything about a she." Sue pushed him a few steps ahead, his shoes squeaking loudly in the empty hall. She continued prodding him forward until they entered her office, where she shoved him at one of the folding chairs that were chosen for their lack of comfort. She didn't like guests to feel too at ease in her presence. Judging by Jacob's bug-eyed expression as the chair teetered on its rear legs, she was off to a good start. When she slammed the door, the trophies rattled in their case and a plaque from 1981, her first year as a cheerleading coach, fell off the wall and clattered to the ground.

"I want to talk to Principal Figgins."

"What's the matter? Being alone with a girl make you nervous?" Sue put her foot on the rung between the front legs of his chair and loomed over him. "You prefer it four to one, I suppose. Even better if she's got a broken arm and can't fight back. Or did they have to hold her for you?"

Despite the chilly room—another trick to discourage visitors—perspiration glistened on Jacob's forehead. It trickled down his temple, but he sat stiffly and didn't dare wipe away a single drop. "I-I don't... I don't know what you're—"

"Don't lie to me." Sue banged the top of her desk with an open palm, making him jump. She got right in his face, so close she could smell his breakfast. "You're lucky she's still alive, you little prick. At least now your mother only has a rapist for a son, instead of a murderer. Bet you didn't tell her that while she was fixing your eggs this morning. How'd they taste? Did you enjoy them in your nice warm house while Santana was outside freezing to death?"

Jacob looked like he was going to puke. Leaning a safe distance away, Sue sat on the edge of her desk and glared. She tapped the rung with her toe a few times, then gave it a kick when he didn't answer.

"I didn't know she was outside. We thought she went home after," he said in a rush. "She was fine when we left. Nobody... raped her."

"You expect me to believe what you did to her was consensual? That girl would never willingly let a mouth-breathing troll like you touch her. Besides that, she's lying in a goddamn hospital bed with her arm in a sling and bruises around her neck."

"She was drunk. She had this flask thing she'd been drinking out of, and some of the guys had beers. We were all kind of buzzed, but she was trashed and kept falling over. Maybe that's how she hurt her arm, but she didn't say." Jacob rubbed his palms up and down the tops of both thighs as he spoke, leaving sweat trails on his khakis. The repetitive movement drove Sue crazy; Jacob's tone grew steadier with each stroke. "She kept hitting on us, then said she'd always wanted to do it with a bunch of guys at once. And she told us to be rough. I didn't want to, but she said it turned her on. The choking was her idea, too. She's really kinky—"

Sue grabbed the front of his shirt, twisting it with one hand, the other balled into a fist. She had dealt with a lot of infuriating students in her day, but this was the closest she'd ever come to decking one in the face. Pleading temporary insanity wouldn't be much of a stretch—as she listened to him blame Santana, a bright flash appeared in her vision, like the aura before her frequent migraines, and by the time it cleared, she already had him in her grasp. But the instant gratification of a punch wouldn't be nearly as satisfying as watching the police cart him and his buddies off to jail.

"Who choked her? I know you don't have the stones for it," she said, releasing his shirt and pushing him back in the seat. "You were probably the first to run away when she blacked out."

"She didn't black out while we were there. It must have happened later. Like I said, she was really drunk—"

"Who?" Sue kicked the chair again.

"Karofsky. But she asked him to. They do it all the time during... at least that's what she said."

_Two down_. "And the other two?"

Jacob's gaze dropped to his lap. He picked at a crusty spot on the knee of his pants.

"Might as well tell me," Sue said, and nudged him with her sneaker. "You saw what they did to Santana. Think any of them will give a shit when the boys in juvie gang up on you with a plunger?"

"Azimio and Lee," he muttered after a lengthy silence. "But we didn't rape her, Coach Sylvester. I swear. If she told you that, she must be trying to frame us."

Finally hearing the names was a short-lived triumph for Sue. Azimio's participation neither shocked nor troubled her—he had been Karofsky's partner in crime for years, well on his way to fulltime hood long before she acquired him. But Lee was a different brand of menace, a privileged, arrogant brat who let his father fight every battle for him. And Stuart Bowman usually won. The attorney had a reputation as a shark in and out of the courtroom, and he'd sunk his teeth in at McKinley more than once. When Ken Tanaka cussed out Lee for calling him a dumb half-breed, Mr. Bowman brought down a shitstorm on the former coach's head and almost got him fired. Since then, Figgins pussyfooted around the boy, turning a blind eye to his misdeeds, for fear of getting slapped with a lawsuit. Sue wasn't intimidated by either Bowman, though. If the father was a tiger shark, then she was a goddamn great white.

"Frame you? Why the hell would she do that?" Sue asked, scowling at Jacob as if he were something nasty she'd stepped in.

"Who knows. She's kind of a... bitch," he said, mouthing the insult. "When she gets mad at you, she doesn't let it go. She and Karofsky had been fighting. Maybe she's doing this to get back at him. And she used to date Lee, but he dumped her. And—" He bunched his shoulders, looking a bit sheepish. "She might not want me to say this next part..."

"No, please," Sue said flatly. "Do go on."

"Well, there's been a lot of talk lately that she's a lesbian. That's some of the reason she and Karofsky were fighting: because she spends so much time with Brittany. Azimio and I were going to run a story about it in the _Muckraker_, but when we asked her about it, she got really embarrassed and defensive. She offered to prove she was straight by, um, servicing us, too."

For a moment Sue could only shake her head in disbelief. She didn't doubt Santana had been raped—the terror and psychological damage that girl was experiencing could not be faked—but the lies Jacob spouted were impressive. They were disguised with elements of truth. Santana was known for being vindictive, especially when it came to boys; she bragged about her numerous sexual conquests; and although Sue didn't take the rumors too seriously, she had wondered from time to time if Santana and Brittany were more than just friends. Sue ignored it all, considering it none of her business what the girl did outside of school. Not once had she confronted Santana, or reached out to her. Not once had she even tried.

"I guess I shouldn't have agreed to it," Jacob was saying now, his face the closest it would ever get to cherubic. "But girls like her don't usually come on to me."

"Bravo." Sneering, Sue gave a few slow, exaggerated claps. "Gotta admit, I thought you'd be the one to crack. But that was a hell of a performance. Who wrote your speech? I bet it was Lee, wasn't it? I'm sure you all had plenty of time to rehearse it last night and this morning too."

He blinked his beady eyes at her.

"Get your ugly ass off my chair," she growled, pulling him up by the collar and marching him out of the office.

"Where are we going?"

"You're going to Figgins. I'm going to round up the three other scumbag rapists at this school so you can wait it out for the cops together."

"She's twisting everything. That's not what hap—"

"So help me God, Jacob, if you don't shut your mouth..." Sue jerked on his collar, then shoved him forward. Her eyes bore into the back of his head as she stalked several paces behind him the rest of the way.

Jacob Ben Israel had no idea how lucky he was to make it to the principal's office intact.

xxx

"Sweetheart, you have some visitors."

Submerged in a dense black sea, it took Santana a while to register her mother's gentle tone and soft knock at the partially open bedroom door. Like a diver avoiding the bends, she surfaced gradually, head turning towards the sound before she reminded her eyes to do the same. She had been sitting there staring at her dark bedspread for over an hour, she realized, as her gaze drifted by the clock on the dresser. At least it beat lying on her back staring at the dark ceiling for two hours, then foolishly letting herself doze off, only to wake up thrashing seconds later. She knew better than to close her eyes for very long. But the somber colors of her room, which had always felt warm and cocoon-like, were now just another somewhat less vivid screen for the images that waited behind her lids. She kept getting lost in them.

When Estella peeked around the door, Santana shook her head. On her first day home from the hospital, she'd been too overwhelmed by shock, pain and exhaustion to even consider guests; she spent the remainder of the day on the living room sofa, wrapped in a blanket and her mother's arms. She was too spaced-out on the Valium prescribed by Dr. McNamara to remember much of the second day. Though total oblivion was appealing, she vowed never to touch the drugs again. And then today...

Today she was nothing. Empty. She didn't want to see anybody, including her friends. Most of all, her friends.

Estella tilted her head imploringly, delicate worry lines creasing her brow. She paid hundreds of dollars for creams and "procedures" to avoid those wrinkles, and in a little over forty-eight hours Santana had managed to undo all that hard work. Any other time she would have rolled her eyes at the fretting, but now she didn't have the energy or the desire.

"Who?" she asked silently.

"Brittany, Quinn and... oh... _¿Cómo se llama ella?_" Estella snapped her fingers lightly, then leaned further into the room to whisper, "The tiny one who always gets the solos."

"Rachel."

"Ah, _sí_. It's Brittany, Quinn and Rachel."

Santana let out a humorless snort of laughter. _Of course it is_. Who else but the three people she was most afraid to face at the moment? Quinn and Rachel she could handle by concealing the embarrassing details she didn't want them to know. They didn't really care about her, anyway. Probably just tagging along in hopes of having their possessions returned to them. But she had so agonized about what to say to Brittany, how to even look her in the eye, that it began manifesting itself in nightmares: worst was the one in which Brittany watched the entire rape from the bleachers and cheered it on. Santana had fled to the bathroom and retched over the toilet for a good twenty minutes after that dream.

With a glance at her mother's concerned expression, she sighed heavily. "Okay. Send them in, I guess." She plucked at her sweatpants and the oversized hoodie she'd been wearing since yesterday. Changing her own clothes was nearly impossible with the sling, sore muscles and stitches inhibiting movement. Estella wrestled back tears every time she noticed another bruise on her daughter's body while redressing it, and Santana didn't have the heart to ask for help again. She hadn't bothered combing her hair after her mother washed it in the sink this morning, either.

"Come on up, girls," Estella called down the hall. To Santana, she blew a kiss and murmured, "If you need me..." She pointed over her shoulder, indicating she'd be nearby.

Tight-lipped smile in place, Santana nodded. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, braced herself against the pillows at her back, and waited.

The girls entered single-file, Quinn in the lead, scratching her shaggy pink and blond mane and giving off a faint aroma of cigarettes. It was still so odd seeing the ex-Barbie shrouded in black, her dainty gold cross replaced by a patchwork of chains, mesh and safety pins. But for the first time, Santana understood—sometimes there was no going back to who you were before.

Quinn chose a spot near the end of the bed and, to Santana's relief, didn't try to smile. Brittany wandered in next, and she did try, but the smile never reached her sad blue eyes. The rosy tinge on her nose and cheeks was a telltale sign she had recently been crying. She stood shoulder to shoulder with Quinn, her arms crisscrossed around a small, fluffy teddy bear. Last came Rachel, who couldn't figure out whether to close the door or leave it open. Estella rescued her by easing it shut from the opposite side, and Rachel joined the other two girls with a cautious step, as if her ballet flats might be too loud on the plush carpet. She had never set foot on it until now.

They all looked much younger than Santana remembered. And none of them knew who should speak first. Finally, Quinn raised a hand cloaked in a fingerless leather glove. "Hey," she said, forgetting to mask her voice with the lazy drawl she'd adopted during the summer.

"Hey," Santana said, still a little raspy.

Brittany sniffled, held out a moment longer, then rounded the bed and flopped down on the edge. Her peppermint body mist was like a slap in the face as she wrapped Santana in a tight hug. It snatched Santana's breath away, paralyzing her with intense fear. Brittany was too busy crying, her silent sobs quaking through both of them, to notice. But Quinn and Rachel shared a worried glance, and it was that quick exchange which kept Santana from a full-blown panic attack. She would not fall apart while two of her biggest rivals looked on with pity. The grunge princess and Queen of the Shire didn't get to stand by and think they were the sane ones.

Stiffly, Santana put her hand on Brittany's back and forced a few comforting pats. She took shallow breaths through her mouth until the nausea subsided. More or less. "So, everyone knows, huh?" she asked, directing the question over Brittany's trembling shoulder.

Quinn shrugged. Her posture was loose from the waist up, but one of her legs jiggled incessantly. "Yeah. I mean, we've all heard... stuff." She traced the carved bedpost with a chipped black fingernail, then let her hand drop when Santana's eyes followed the motion. "Cops came to the school and arrested the guys on Thursday, so word spread pretty fast. They were back yesterday. They're, uh, saying it didn't happen like you said it did."

None of this was news to Santana. Her efforts to hide the boys' identities were all in vain, thanks to Sue Sylvester's meddling. Before Santana could escape the hospital on Thursday morning, she had no choice but to divulge the names the police officer already knew because of the coach's big mouth. She made her father—irate at the mention of Lee Bowman—leave the room as she told her side of the story. Her mother was still reeling from the discussion of follow-up exams for HIV testing, and didn't seem aware of the holes in Santana's account. But the officer's pen hesitated once or twice as he jotted down notes, and he repeated some questions as if she had misunderstood them. She didn't lie about anything. She just omitted the parts too degrading to tell a middle-aged man with a toupee and a beer gut: the flask, the recording, the taunts about being a lesbian.

Not that it did much good. The boys' parents bailed them out later the same day, and if the shouting match her father had with Lee's dad on the phone was any indication, her attackers had cooked up quite the rebuttal. Her father wouldn't talk about what Mr. Bowman said during that call, but it wasn't hard to guess.

"No one believes them, of course," Rachel said, picking up where Quinn left off. Her voice lacked the conviction her words suggested, and she instantly looked like she regretted speaking.

"Sure about that?" Santana asked, eyebrow arched.

"Well, nobody in glee club does. We're all behind you one hundred percent. It's just... Finn says some of the football team is siding with them. And a lot of the track team." Rachel fretted her bottom lip and began to rummage through the _Wicked_ messenger bag she'd been toting around since Nationals. From beneath the sequined flap where the witches reveled in their delicious gossip, she brought out a pastel envelope the size of a greeting card. Santana's name was printed on the front in glittery ink. "From everybody in glee," she said, the envelope proffered as she moved forward tentatively. When Santana didn't take it, Rachel placed it on the nightstand as if it were breakable. "They all wanted to be here, but Mercedes has the flu and Tina had to go out of town with her parents. The boys weren't sure they should..." The sentence faded as her eyes settled on the vague bruising along Santana's jaw.

Even after Santana had scrubbed the dirt and greasepaint off at the hospital, the marks left behind by Azimio's fingertips gave her a grubby appearance. Now the dark smudges were mellowing to a pea green shade similar to that of the wicked witch on Rachel's bag. One nice, loud "Boo!" would have scared the shit out of Rachel, too, with the way she was staring. Instead, Santana glared until the girl retreated towards the safety of Quinn.

"I tried to come sooner," Brittany said, swiping at her runny nose as she leaned back a bit, "but your mom said you weren't ready for visitors when I called the first couple times." She cast a forlorn look at the sling, her features twisting into the miserable pout that always meant tears weren't far behind. "I didn't know what else to do but wait. I've been going crazy for the last two days."

Santana knew she should feel something. Normally it broke her heart when the blonde—the one person whose cheerful attitude she didn't find obnoxious—cried. But as she watched the storm of emotion raging on Brittany's pretty face, the only thing she felt was a tightness in her throat that had nothing to do with grief. "How was the hayride?" she asked quietly.

Brittany froze in the middle of smoothing down Santana's hair. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. After a moment she slowly retracted her hand and lowered her gaze to the stuffed animal in her lap.

"It sucked ass," Quinn said when the awkward silence became unbearable. "We drove around a bunch of back roads at about five miles per hour. People kept honking at us. And Lauren had an allergic reaction to the hay. She sneezed all over everyone. It was gross."

"She blew her nose on my shawl," added Rachel, shuddering at the memory. The night of the festival she had displayed an uncharacteristic amount of cleavage in her costume as Nancy from _Oliver! _Santana, Brittany and Quinn had made a drinking game of that shawl, downing punch every time the girl snuck a glance at its knotted ends and hitched them up on her chest.

Ignoring the others, Santana continued to study Brittany until penitent blue eyes peeked up at her. She wished she had more to offer than a blank expression, but her face felt heavy, immobile; any smile she fastened on would just sag under the weight of it.

"I ran back to look for you in the gym, but you weren't there," Brittany said in a small, wavering voice. "When I went back to the parking lot, you weren't there, either. You'd been complaining how cold it was—I thought you decided to skip the hayride and go home. I tried to call you, but your phone was in my car. And I didn't see Karofsky anywhere, so I figured you got a ride from him."

"Well." Santana lifted the shoulder she could still use. "You were right about that part."

Quinn and Rachel shifted uncomfortably in the background, both developing a sudden fascination with the floor. It took Brittany a while longer to catch the innuendo. When it had sunk in, her features puckered again and she shook her head helplessly. "I'm sorry, Santana," she whispered as fat teardrops slid down either cheek and dripped from her chin. "I'd give anything to have been there to protect you. I'd give up Lord Tubbington. Please don't be mad at me."

If anyone else had suggested trading a pet to keep Santana from harm, she would have gotten pissed at them for trivializing what she'd gone through. But Brittany loved that stupid cat as if it were a person. It was the sincerest apology Santana could ask for—one she hadn't realized she needed until it came. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just... mad," she said, and reached over to link her pinkie with Brittany's. The gesture had always come naturally before, but now it felt contrived, like the bites of food she took at mealtime to appease her mother, or the low numbers she gave when her father inquired on pain levels.

"Me too." Brittany rested her free hand on top of Santana's, petting it. "I hate those jerks. They deserve the electric chair."

Santana fixed her gaze on the wall, beyond each of the girls. Her parents were both adamant about pressing charges and seeing the boys punished to the fullest. She hadn't allowed herself to consider it much. The rape was too fresh in her mind, too all-encompassing. It didn't matter whom she'd spoken to since: Lee's voice stood out above the others, warning her that he could get away with whatever he wanted.

"What are they saying happened?" she asked.

When several seconds went by without a response, she looked from one nervous face to another, eventually singling out Rachel. The girl was honest to a fault, and also the only person in the room who wasn't avoiding eye contact at the moment. "Tell me," Santana said.

Rachel gripped the strap of her _Wicked_ bag and pulled it tight against herself, like she was securing a seatbelt. "They said you were drinking and offered to sleep with all of them. Encouraged them to be... aggressive. They say they didn't know you got hurt—that it was by accident. And that you're claiming otherwise because you have a grudge against each of them."

"Grudge?"

"Yeah. According to Lee, you never got over him breaking up with you. He says you threatened to pay him back someday."

"Which is total garbage," Quinn put in, her slouch briefly correcting itself. "I remember when you broke up with that douche bag. He flamed you on Facebook for a week."

"And the others?" Santana asked Rachel intently.

"Karofsky says you two have been fighting a lot and he planned to end it with you because of..." Rachel darted a glance at the blonde seated on the bed. "Because of your relationship with Brittany."

Santana didn't bat an eyelash. She waited for Rachel to go on, but it was Brittany who continued in a sorrowful tone. "Jacob and Azimio say you were pissed they were going to write about you in _The Muckraker_," she said, cupping a palm to Santana's cheek. She stroked the soft, fleshy contour with the pad of her thumb. "Honey, they're saying you had sex with them to prove you're not a lesbian."

And there it was. Exactly what she dreaded. Her deepest secret, the source of this whole godforsaken mess, was going to be dragged through the mud just like she had been. "Jesus Christ," she muttered, pulling away from Brittany's touch. She covered her face with her own hand, as if to cry, but not a single tear fell. The last of them had gone down the drain at the hospital as a nurse helped her rinse off every inch of her body in a cramped, stark white shower stall. She didn't know if she would ever get them back.

"I told everyone that it's not true. Any of it. Not what they're saying you did, or about us, or about you being a—"

"Thanks, Britt," Santana said, flinging her hand aside to reveal a cold, venomous glare. "Thanks a lot for that. Maybe if you'd been so determined not to out me to begin with, none of this would've happened."

Brittany shrank from the accusation, hugging the teddy bear to her chest. "What?"

"Those sick fucks got Karofsky to bring me to the football field so they could watch us have sex. They were threatening to out both of us if we didn't." Santana fired a look at Quinn and Rachel, and said, "Yes, I'm a dyke. Karofsky's a queer. We've been each other's beards all along. Any questions?" When they quickly shook their heads, Santana turned back to find Brittany staring at her, nonplussed. For the first time that day, she didn't feel entirely numb inside: like a fish on dry land, its lifeless form giving a sudden and final spasm, her dead emotions twitched—with anger. She needed Brittany to at least pretend to understand a simple goddamn conversation for once. "I had to do something about the rumors you started on _Fondue for Two_. Karofsky was as scared as I was about people finding out. We had a deal until the other night when he started slobbering all over me. I had to slap him to make him stop. The other guys were hiding under the bleachers. I knew something wasn't right when they came out from under there... I should've just ran right then. Why the hell didn't I run?"

Brittany must have sensed the question was rhetorical. She tilted her head sympathetically, but didn't attempt to answer. Encouraged by the attentive pose, Santana couldn't hold the rest of the story in any longer:

"They kept making fun of us, and when I finally did try to leave, Karofsky lost it because I wouldn't lie for him. The piece of shit had already told them about me, so I wasn't going to defend his stupid ass. Maybe if I had... He pushed me into the fence, and I fell down. I tried to fight him, but he hit me. He hit me so hard." She grazed the assaulted cheek with her fingers, remembering the precise sound of the slap, right down to the click of Karofsky's unsnapped jacket cuff. "One of the guys told him to teach me who was boss. And then he was grabbing me everywhere, slamming my head into the ground, pulling my underwear off. He stuffed the fucking things in my mouth. I thought I was going to choke to death. All I could do was lay there while he rubbed his dick against my crotch. And after all of that, he couldn't even get the damn thing up."

Her short, spiteful laugh made her friends uneasy, but she didn't care. She was barely aware they were in the room. "He went crazy and started punching the fence. That's when Lee came over and acted like he was going to help me up, but I knew he was screwing with me. So I kicked him and ran. I ran _inside _the fence like one of those dumb bitches in a horror movie who runs up the stairs. Jesus." She shook her head at her own stupidity, and sighed. "But I didn't have anywhere else to go. Lee was chasing me... he's so fast... I tried to trip him up on the bleachers—the fucking bleachers, for Christ's sake. God, I am an idiot."

"No, you're—"

"Yes, I am," Santana cut Brittany off sharply, then gestured to her injured arm. "If I'd stayed on the field, at least I wouldn't be in this shitty sling. Azimio grabbed my ankle through the bleachers, and I broke my arm falling. I heard it snap. I've never been in that much pain in my life. Well, up to that point anyway. Lee dumping me on the ground under the bleachers didn't feel too great, either. And then he just... he..." She searched for the proper verb to describe Lee's next act. "Raped" or "violated" seemed too impersonal, cringeworthy. "Fucked" was appropriately base and would also provide the shock value; but then again, it might sound too consensual. In the end, she decided there wasn't a word for what he'd done to her.

"I can still smell the watermelon gum he had in his mouth when he was on top of me. I'll never get rid of that shit," she said, breath quickening reflexively. "He kissed me on the forehead when he was done. I was just so glad it was over. I thought they would go away. But then Lee talked Azimio into taking a turn... He knocked me on my stomach and rubbed my face in the dirt before. Slapped me on the ass after. He's the one who held me for Jacob too. They made me give him a blowjob. Now everything I eat tastes like Jacob fucking Ben Israel's cock." Her face crinkled in disgust. She hadn't expected to reveal that detail—or to mention the oral sex at all—and saying it out loud churned her stomach. "I puked on him at least. But it made him mad and he pissed down the front of my uniform like a goddamn dog marking its territory."

"Oh, my God," Rachel said into her hand, eyes enormous. She was paler than Quinn, who kept blinking and swallowing as though she had a nervous tic. Brittany resembled a lost little kid.

Santana wondered if she should stop (_can't_), if the facts were too brutal for this unscathed trio of girls to hear (_poor babies_). How could they possibly grasp what it was like to have their bodies invaded? Treated as nothing more than an object for another's use? Left so damaged that it even hurt to pee?

Well, maybe one of them had a vague idea.

"Lee got ticked off at him for that," Santana said in Quinn's direction. This next part would be of particular interest to the girl, anyway. "He dragged me away from Jacob and poured his beer on me so I wouldn't stink as bad. Then he started digging through my basket and just going on and on. Jesus, I wanted him to shut up. I _hate _his fucking voice. But he kept talking about your dad's flask and poking me with it." Despite the warmth of her sweats and hoodie, she shuddered, skin prickling with goose bumps.

"The other guys were ready to go, but he said they weren't leaving until everyone had a turn. Azimio thought he meant Karofsky... And he did grab me and shove me into Karofsky. Said if he could go through with it, they'd believe he wasn't gay. He just stood there like a dumb-ass, so Lee threw me down and told him he'd show him how you fuck a girl."

Eyes glazing over, Santana narrated in a flat tone the scene she had relived a thousand times in the past few days: "He used the flask to do it. Kept jamming it in. Covered my mouth when I screamed. Karofsky pushed him away, and I thought, 'He's finally gonna help me.' But he pulled the flask out and climbed on top of me. Got it up that time. Before he finished, he started choking me with Brittany's sash. 'It's your fault. It's your fault.' He kept saying that. Last thing I remember is thinking he was going to kill me..." She tilted her head and tugged aside the bulky collar of her sweatshirt, exposing the bruise around her neck. "I guess they took off when I passed out. They just left me there in the cold to die."

For a long while the room was quiet, save for a chorus of sniffles. When Santana brought her vision back into focus, hers were the only dry eyes of the group: Brittany's lids had swollen into slits, a network of slender blue veins detectable beneath the delicate pink skin; huge tears rolled down Rachel's cheeks with each labored blink; and Quinn, head turned, absorbed her bleeding mascara with the edge of her sleeve. A strange calm, too repressive to be called peace, settled over Santana as she watched them collecting themselves. So far she hadn't spoken that candidly about the attack to anyone. Shouldn't it have lifted some of the weight from her shoulders?

"I don't know what happened to the flask. They must have taken it with them," she said when Quinn, inky smears under both eyes, faced her again. And to Rachel: "Your phone too. They used it to record the whole thing. Jacob probably still has it."

Rachel retrieved a tissue from her bag. "I don't care about the phone, Santana. It's replaceable," she said as she wiped her damp cheeks. "It just makes me sick that this happened to you. I can't believe they would do something this..."

"Sadistic as fuck," Quinn supplied. "I can't believe I used to help cheer those dickwads on."

"We all did," said Santana.

"Not anymore." Brittany sniffed several times, but couldn't breathe through her clogged nose. She inhaled shakily through her mouth and released the breath as she said, "Yesterday, Coach Sylvester told us we're boycotting the football team unless Coach Beiste replaces the guys and anyone supporting them. And she said if any of the Cheerios believed the guys' stories, they should turn in their uniforms."

Sylvester's ongoing crusade on her behalf puzzled Santana. Boycotting football was a drastic move, even for the over-the-top cheerleading coach. But the possibility that her fellow squad members might not be on her side concerned Santana more. "Did they?" she asked.

"A couple of them," Brittany said, with a reluctant nod. "Lee's little sister and her best friend. I've never seen the coach that mad. She yelled at them in front of everyone."

"Yeah, well, that bitch has a big mouth." Santana stated it as simple fact, unadorned by anger. The other girls looked surprised, but none of them tried to object.

Brittany absently fiddled with the teddy bear's ears until she remembered the toy had another purpose. She held it out to Santana, attempting a small smile as she danced the fuzzy creature to and fro. "Meet Howard. He's from Becky. She said he'll help you get better and come back to school soon."

Santana drew the bear into her lap, mostly to still its movement, and plucked at one of the black plastic dots it had for eyes. After a moment, she turned it facedown against her leg. "It'll take a lot more than Howard to get me to go back there."

"What? But you have to," Brittany said, a note of panic in her voice.

"No, I really don't." Santana shrugged lightly. "I'm sorry, but I can't do it. Not while they're there."

Brittany bowed her head, unable to choke out the protests her lips formed. Leaning over with a tissue, Rachel tapped her on the shoulder. "Brittany's right," Rachel said cautiously, as if anticipating the stony expression Santana trained on her. "It's senior year. You're supposed to graduate with us. It wouldn't be the same without you. Who's going to tell me I look like the coroner of Munchkinland in my cap and gown if you're not there?"

"Well, we all know I would," Quinn said, venturing a smirk. "But I'm with these guys, Santana. You need to come back. Don't let those shitheads intimidate you. You're way more badass than any of them."

"And I'm sure they've been warned to stay away from you," said Rachel. "At least until there's been a trial. They won't want to risk getting themselves into even bigger trouble."

"Obviously you don't know shit about Lee," Santana said wearily. The girls were being nice and all, but she'd grown tired of the lectures about her fighting spirit, her resilience. Everyone expected her to be the same girl as before—the feisty Latina with a penchant for "going all Lima Heights." Nobody realized that girl hadn't made it out alive. She had been consumed in the hellfire the boys stoked beneath the bleachers. Someone else had risen from the ashes. But who this new girl was, Santana didn't have a clue.

"Then, we'll watch out for you." Rachel gestured to Quinn, Brittany and, finally, with an ironic half-smile, herself. "We won't let you out of our sight. I'll speak with Finn too. He and the rest of the boys in glee will jump at the chance to defend you. Mr. Schue had to talk them out of going after Lee and the others yesterday."

"Mr. Schue needs to grow a pair." Quinn sidled closer to the bed and rested her knee on the mattress, her hip against the post. "But listen to Berry. We've got your back. I'll enlist the Skanks too. If you want, we can slash the creeps' tires on Monday. Send them a little message."

Quinn's green eyes gleamed like peridot, vibrant despite the dark layers of makeup. Her lust for mayhem—this fallen angel intent on dirtying her soul—was rather enticing. Though they widened a bit at the mention of property damage, Rachel's brown eyes radiated warmth and a quiet strength Santana had never noticed before. But it was those damn, hopeful blue eyes turning up at her that gave Santana's heart the faintest of tugs. So, the thing still worked after all.

"Please?" Brittany said.

"I'll think about." Santana forced the corners of her mouth to curl upward, imitating her friends as they smiled and murmured with enthusiasm about her return to school. Ten minutes later, again at Brittany's request, the four girls were camped on Santana's bed watching a DVD of _That Darn Cat! _And when her mother peeked into the room to take lunch orders, Santana agreed with everyone else that pizza sounded delicious.

Each new lie made it easier to pretend she was getting back to normal.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Hey, guys. I had different plans for this chapter, but the muse she is fickle. I ended up splitting it into two chapters, which is why this one is a bit shorter than the previous ones. Sorry about that. Also, I wrote this chapter before "Mash Off" aired, so any similarities to certain events are coincidental. (But if I'd known what a douche Finn was going to be in that episode, I would've done some things differently. Bastard.) In response to the review from Willowfan: it's mentioned/alluded to in chapter 3 that Santana didn't tell the police about the phone because it has the video on it. She only told Rachel, Quinn and Brittany about the guys taking it. But as far as Rachel knows, Santana told the police about it in her statement. So basically, yeah, the police know nothing about it and therefore can't track it. Sorry if that wasn't clear. Don't worry, I've got plans for the phone. And as always, thanks to those who read and review. Please continue. Not gonna lie, my ego needs it. Ok, on with chapter four.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<strong>

* * *

><p>"Lasagna or, um..." Quinn turned the bowl from side to side, wrinkling her nose. The goopy contents slid along the white Styrofoam like a slug leaving a slimy yellow trail in its wake. She sniffed it warily. Hmm. It looked like cheese and smelled like cheese, but in the Lima City School District that didn't necessarily mean it was cheese. "Whatever the hell this is?" she concluded.<p>

Santana glanced at the mystery substance with disinterest and pointed to the servings of lasagna that congealed on the opposite side of the sneeze guard. Reaching under the plexiglass, Quinn chose a fresher, less fingered plate from the back. She set it on the tray, alongside her own lunch and the plastic sporks and napkins she'd collected at the start of the line. Once lime Jell-O squares had been ruled out in favor of chocolate pudding cups, the girls stood eyeing the milk cartons with an utter lack of enthusiasm.

"Pop?" Quinn asked, nodding towards the row of vending machines along the wall.

"I don't have any change."

"It's on me." Lifting their tray, Quinn motioned with her elbow for Santana to follow as she trudged to that large red beacon of hope, the Coke dispenser. A hush fell over each of the crowded tables they passed, and though Quinn didn't bother to look, she sensed that several pairs of eyes tracked their every movement. She had gotten used to the staring in recent years, the way you get used to a nosy neighbor and learn to shut your blinds. She had been the recipient of so many types of stares, she considered herself an expert on the subject. After laying "Lucy Caboosey" to rest, she discovered what it meant to be admired, gazed upon with desire. During her pregnancy, it was a mixed bag: pity, scorn, judgment. And as a pink-haired, pierced-nosed, punk rock darling, she was either an oddity or the butt of a joke. But, hey, at least she wasn't invisible.

These stares weren't for her, though. They only grazed past while flocking to her companion. Santana had probably selected the purple overalls and loose-sleeved peasant top to detract attention; but she couldn't hide the sling or her careful tread. And Quinn knew from experience that they didn't make clothes baggy enough to shield you from gossip. At one time she would have relished the idea of Santana walking self-consciously beside her, getting a taste of how it felt to carry a deep, shameful secret on the outside. It brought her no satisfaction now.

Luckily she had worn her heaviest combat boots today. They were good for stomping out frustration. To Quinn, each thudding footstep sounded like her own personal "fuck you" to the rest of the world. In honor of Santana, she stomped up to the Coke machine extra hard. She tried balancing the tray on one knee while rooting through her pockets for coins.

"I can hold it," said Santana.

"It's okay, I've got—"

"Just give me the damn thing, Fabray."

Quinn hiked her eyebrow at the snappish tone, more from habit than actual annoyance. Her new image required a bad attitude, and anger had become her go-to reaction for everything. Not a problem—with all the shit life had dealt her, she had rage to spare. But then, she was guessing, so did Santana. What else could drive the girl back to school less than a week after being raped? What else could she be feeling as two of her attackers scarfed Doritos and licked orange gunk off their fingers as they watched her from a table across the room?

"Pigs," Quinn said, handing the tray over to Santana. When she was sure the girl had a firm grip, she raised her fists at Karofsky and Azimio, middle fingers on prominent display. The boys snickered into their chip bags and went back to putting on a show for their friends. Their gestures made it clear they were discussing Santana. Quinn gave a soft noise of disgust and returned to scrounging for quarters. "Ignore them."

"I had a dream they chopped me up and hung the pieces on meat hooks all over school." Santana gazed around as if she might spot a dismembered limb amid the bustling cafeteria. "Think they left my liver in here."

Uncertain how to respond, Quinn fed coins into the machine and punched the top button with her thumb first. "Holy shit. That's really..." She reached for the can that clattered into the slot below. "Twisted."

"Twisted?" said a male voice behind her. "Must be talking about your freaky lesbian sex lives."

Quinn turned abruptly on her heel, scowling as her eyes traveled up the massive frame of Shane Tinsley. She only knew two things about the boy leviathan: he was dating Mercedes and he played linebacker for the Titans. Until this moment they had never said so much as hello to each other. She already despised him. "Excuse me?" she demanded.

"You heard me, Fraggle Rock." His languid smile made him look like he'd downed too much Nyquil. He motioned at Santana, but kept his attention on Quinn. "Seen you hanging out with her all day and figured you gotta be into that weird shit too. Just keep your new girlfriend away from mine. Don't want my baby catching y'all's lesbian cooties."

Quinn traded the Coke can back and forth in her hands and glanced sideways at Santana. Head slightly bent, eyes leveled no higher than Shane's chest, the girl didn't move a muscle. Didn't repay the insults. Didn't holler in Spanish. Quinn might as well have been standing next to a stranger. "I'd be more worried about myself if I were you," she said to Shane.

"Why's that?"

"You spend an awful lot of time with Karofsky. If gay is contagious, he probably already infected you."

"Man, you're crazy." Shane moseyed along, his grin as broad as the rest of him. It appeared he was just passing by, friendly as can be. Pausing near Santana, he spoke over his shoulder to Quinn, "Best be watching what you say about my boys. And careful touching this one." He pointed down at Santana, his index finger and thumb poised like an imaginary pistol in a game of Cowboys and Indians. He pulled the trigger. _Bang, bang_. "She cries rape."

"Careful dropping the soap in front of Karofsky," Quinn announced loudly, "or you'll be crying it too."

Conversation halted and plastic utensils froze midair at the table occupied by the band geeks. They resumed shoveling food into their metal-filled mouths when Shane shot them a warning look. He then turned towards Quinn, reaching for the football he toted under his arm—a jock's security blanket. After he gave it a few light tosses, he gripped it easily in one hand and heaved it at her face.

She flinched, but the impact never came. Heat flooded her cheeks when she opened her eyes to see him still holding the ball.

"Made you blink." Chuckling, he flipped the ball again and walked backwards a couple of steps. He pretended it was an accident when he bumped into Santana, his elbow catching her good shoulder. With a sharp gasp, she jerked away from him, the lunch tray tipping at the opposite end. She tried to steady it as the dishes of lasagna and pudding slid to the edge, but it was too top-heavy for a single hand to hold. And Quinn's reflexes weren't fast enough. The tray and everything on it crashed to the floor: sporks ricocheted in different directions; the pudding cups landed upside down, chocolate spattering from broken foil seals; Quinn's apple rolled out of sight; and an entire lasagna square plopped onto the toe of her combat boot.

"Oops," Shane said, surveying the mess. "My bad."

Most of the cafeteria had quieted, and Quinn could practically hear the intake of breath as everyone waited for her or Santana to react. For several moments, Santana's gaze stayed fastened on the cheese and meat sauce oozing down the side of Quinn's shoe. When Quinn flicked it off with a quick twitch of her foot, the color drained from Santana's cheeks. She cupped a hand over her mouth, dark hair fanning out behind her as she spun around and ran for the closest exit.

"There goes your Cheeri-ho," Shane said as Quinn started after the girl. She told herself to keep moving, to ignore the smug grin he exchanged with Karofsky and Azimio. But she couldn't let a perfectly good Coca-Cola go to waste after she had just taken the time to shake it up, now could she?

Hell no.

She jogged a few more paces, whipped around, and launched the can at the ground in front of Shane. It exploded at his feet, drenching his Nikes and jeans with a geyser of fizzy soda, then cartwheeled halfway across the room, liquid spiraling through the air. A group of innocent bystanders leapt for cover, their angry protests not fazing Quinn in the least. It was worth pissing a handful of people off to see Shane cursing as he tried to jiggle moisture out of his huge, cola-stained sneakers.

"Your bad. You clean it up," Quinn called to him, hurrying through the open doorway. Her legs hadn't moved this fast in months—Skanks mostly loitered—but she picked up speed when she spotted Santana disappearing into the girls' restroom down the hall. Seconds later, her own entrance was met with the sound of Santana puking her guts out in one of the stalls. It lasted a long time. So long, Quinn began to wonder if she should go for the school nurse. But eventually the retching faded to an occasional dry cough, and after a while, the toilet flushed. She waited a little longer, then tapped a knuckle to the stall door.

"Go away."

"Are you all right?"

"Never better. Leave me alone."

Quinn gave the defaced partition a faint smirk. _Ah, there you are_, she thought. As much as they had butted heads in the past, she was glad that some of the old Santana still remained. Quinn owed a lot to that girl. If not for the fiercest member of the Unholy Trinity, Quinn's star status might not have shined as brightly as it once did. The threat of losing her popularity to Santana had been a driving force during their days as Cheerios. And Santana's attitude had scared off competitors, allowing Quinn to comfortably enjoy her position of power while getting to be "the nice one." If Quinn were the Great and Powerful Oz, Santana had been the shooting flames and booming voice that made it so.

"Can you at least pass me some toilet paper to wipe off this cheese with?" Quinn scuffed her boot lightly on the grimy tile below. She expected another dismissal, but Santana's deep sigh was followed by rattling, a soft rip, and a hand emerging from beneath the door. Bending to retrieve the wad of tissue it offered, Quinn saw that the girl had seated herself cross-legged on the floor. _Ick_. Quinn attempted to rub the top of her boot clean, but the generic one-ply sheets were as worthless at mopping up lasagna as they were at their intended purpose. She crumpled them up and tossed them into the neighboring toilet. Then she looked skeptically at the floor. Its dull, speckled surface had always reminded her of pimento loaf, and there was no telling what kind of crud lurked there, invisible to the naked eye. But she pushed those thoughts aside—she was wearing ratty old camo pants anyway—and eased down next to Santana's stall, her back against the divider, hands and butt touching only what they must.

"I've dropped trays in the cafeteria before," Quinn said when she got tired of listening to the dripping faucet that filled the silence. "And I didn't have a broken arm at the time."

"I don't care about the stupid tray."

The response was gradual, and lingered as if there were more to come. Not wanting to rush it, Quinn propped her chin on her upraised knees, arms wrapped around them, and kept quiet.

"That stuff spilling on your shoe reminded me of... I guess I had a flashback or something. Been having them since it happened." Santana sounded muffled, like she was speaking into fabric or skin. "And I get sick every freakin' time. I've thrown up more in the past five days than I have my entire life. My throat hurts."

Quinn nodded sympathetically. During her pregnancy, violent bouts of morning sickness had left her feeling as though someone had taken sandpaper to her esophagus. At one point, she'd been convinced she would give birth to a tiny, bald carpenter. "Well," she said, and almost didn't recognize the gentle, feminine tone that was her natural voice, "if it's any consolation, you look super thin."

"It's not. I hate my body. I have a skinny ass."

Surprised to hear those words coming from Santana's mouth, Quinn was momentarily speechless. She had always been a tad envious of the girl, whose slim figure had never been overweight or put through the rigors of childbirth. And Santana seemed to have such confidence in her own appearance. While the rest of the Cheerios whined about cankles and man shoulders, she would roll her eyes and continue filing her fingernails into perfectly sculpted tips. Even Sue sometimes called Santana front and center after weigh-ins, using her as an example of what the heavier girls should aspire to. However, that all changed when the coach found out about Santana's boob job.

"Better than having these tree trunk legs of mine." Quinn pinched the side of one calf with her thumb and forefinger. Her legs really were the feature she was most insecure about, but she didn't dare confide that to Santana before. It would have come back to bite her in the ass. Now it didn't even get a reaction. "Hey, you missed it," she said, deciding to switch topics. "I threw my pop can at Shane. It sprayed Coke all over his pants and shoes. And some other people."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"You're going to get into trouble."

"Oh well. Baby Huey had it coming. I have no idea what Mercedes sees in that horse's ass."

Santana took a while to answer. And then: "She doesn't believe me, does she?" Although phrased as a question, it was stated like a fact. Her feelings were disguised by the monotone in which she spoke. "That's why she didn't come with you guys the other day. Not because she had the flu."

Quinn wished she could change the subject again, but it would just be way too obvious. There was truth to what Santana said. On the previous Friday, Mr. Schuester had summoned each member of New Directions to the choir room to discuss their feelings and to clear up some of the rumors that swirled around Santana's absence. It was awkward—he also brought in Miss Pillsbury—and upsetting—Brittany cried so hard she had to be escorted to the nurse's office and sent home. And while no one accused Santana of lying, there were definitely skeptics in the group. Mercedes listened to Mr. Schue's version of events with arms crossed, eyebrow cocked, and not a single bit of input.

"I don't think it's that she doesn't believe you," Quinn said carefully. "She's probably just going along with Shane since he's her first real boyfriend. And for the record, Tina really was out of town."

"You believe me, though." A whisper, a plea. "Right?"

Before Saturday, Quinn would have struggled with the reply. She knew firsthand the extremes Santana went to for manipulation and revenge. At the wrong end of the girl's wrath, Quinn had incurred everything from bruises to mono. She had also lost more than one of her boyfriends to Santana, the high school equivalent of a man-eater. Perhaps things got out of hand with the guys, and Santana wound up regretting it. Wouldn't be the first time in McKinley history that a girl made up an awful lie because sex turned out to be a mistake. But after visiting Santana at home over the weekend, listening to her describe the rape in her own words, seeing how altered she was by it both physically and mentally, Quinn stopped doubting. She believed every last horrific detail Santana had given.

"Yes," she said. "I do."

Very, very slowly the stall door creaked open. Santana didn't step out, and after a moment, Quinn peeked around the corner to find her still seated next to the toilet, head lowered, long black hair veiling her face. Turning, Quinn scooted on her backside until she was halfway in the stall, then mimicked the girl's cross-legged posture, soiled boot tucked under her thigh. They looked like they were meditating right there on the lunchmeat tiles. As she tried to think of something profound or supportive to say—something not completely idiotic or insensitive—a pair of giggling freshman entered the restroom. They collided with each other, eyes widening, when Quinn leaned back to shoot them a dirty look. And they tripped over themselves obeying when she said, "Leave."

To Santana, for whom words could not suffice, Quinn offered a small touch, hand resting on the girl's knee.

"Aren't you afraid you'll get my lesbian cooties?" Santana said with a hint of wryness.

"I'll take my chances." Quinn smirked, tilted her head and peered up at Santana from beneath the shroud of dark tresses. Honestly, it hadn't shocked her when Santana admitted she was a lesbian. Brittany's loose lips raised suspicions even before the _Fondue for Two _incident, and anyone with eyes could see that the blonde and brunette cheerleaders were especially close. At one time, Quinn might have considered it immoral, thanks to her religious upbringing. But those days were over. She was doing everything in her power to shed the good little Christian girl skin that had inhibited her for so long. As proof, she added, "Besides, I've been to the dark side. Tasted those cookies."

That got Santana to lift her head. "What?" she asked, more animated in that one second than she had been all day. "When?"

"Summer. Mostly just some making out." Quinn shrugged and hoped the shadows cast by the blinking fluorescent light above would conceal her burning cheeks. "Turns out Mack is into more than truckers when she's lit. I was pretty hammered, too. Don't tell her I told you. She'd probably pop a cap in my ass."

Amusement flickered on Santana's features, her eyebrows arching, mouth quirked into a poorly suppressed smile. She reached over and wiggled Quinn's nose ring with the tip of her index finger. "And here I was thinking you were straight up vanilla."

"Nah. Look at this hair. Sherbet all the way." Quinn shook her strawberries and cream locks like she was auditioning for a L'Oreal commercial. "Or at least one of those Flintstones Push Ups."

"Oh, my God, I love those."

"Me too."

They looked at each other and giggled. But Santana sobered an instant later, as if laughter were a forbidden pleasure and she'd been caught in the act. She went someplace far away for a while, and even her voice sounded distant when she said, "My parents know. About me. We haven't talked about it, but I know they've heard things."

"Is that... bad?" Quinn asked. She hadn't spent a lot of time around Santana's mother and father, but they seemed decent enough. Much more laid-back than her own parents. Mrs. Lopez was an artist, too; and if the bold, sensual paintings—including a nude self-portrait—which adorned the walls of her chic home were any indication, she was fairly open-minded.

"I didn't want them to find out. Not like this. They're pretending everything's fine, but..." A tremor went through Santana's body, her face twisting into a pained expression. She cried without producing a single teardrop. "My dad doesn't look at me the same anymore," she said as clearly as her heaving breath allowed. "I don't know how to explain it. He's just... different."

Quinn didn't need an explanation for how it felt to become a stranger in your father's eyes, to lose his love because you were so deplorable. (_It tears you up inside._) She swallowed hard, forcing back the lump in her throat as she gazed down at her ugly camo pants and the junkyard of spiked and studded bracelets on her forearms. (_It destroys you_.) "Maybe he needs time to adjust," she said, placing a palm on Santana's back and gliding it side to side. Quinn had once liked her mother to do this for her when she was upset. Now they rarely spoke. "Or maybe it just feels different because, after what you've been through, you are different."

"I don't want to be different. I want things the way they were before." Santana demanded it, as if Quinn could snap her fingers and make it happen. But there was no magical snap—only that leaking faucet to remind them they were sitting on the crummy bathroom floor of a school they would both be lucky to escape alive, let alone unchanged. "Fuck," she said, and drove her fist into her knee. "It's not fair. Those assholes ruined me. I can't even sleep by myself anymore. I have to sleep with my mom like I'm fucking eight years old. But they get to walk around like nothing's wrong. Coach Beiste didn't even kick them off the team yet. She probably won't. They're going to get away with the whole goddamn thing."

"No, they're not," Quinn said firmly. She wasn't as certain as she sounded. Plenty of people were gunning for the boys to do hard time, but she had overheard her mother debating the issue with friends during Sunday bridge club. The weekly card game was really just an excuse for a group of affluent women to gather in each other's homes, drain the liquor cabinets, and gossip about the other members who weren't present. Yesterday, Lee Bowman's mom was one of the absentees. Her close friend, an outspoken woman who also happened to be the mayor's wife, came to her defense and spent a good twenty minutes listing reasons the boys would go free, not the least of which was Santana's "reputation." According to the know-it-all, Lee's dad was pushing for a speedy trial with no convictions, and he would get it. Quinn wanted to punch the woman after listening to her drone on and on. Now, watching despair consume Santana whole, she wished she had.

"They're guilty as hell," she said. "Let them get convicted and rot in prison for a while, then their lives will be fucked up too."

"For a while," Santana muttered.

"Yeah. And until then..." Quinn shifted onto her knees, unzipped the cargo pocket at her thigh and pulled out a black permanent marker. Random acts of vandalism were The Skanks' specialty; their motto: Be prepared. She was pretty sure they had stolen that from the Boy Scouts, but no big surprise there—theft was another favorite pastime for the pack of delinquent girls. "We'll keep them from getting too comfortable on the outside."

"What do you mean?"

Quinn stood up and uncapped the marker. Choosing a section of stall with the least amount of graffiti, she began scrawling in large capital letters that spanned the surface from top to bottom. Pressing till the felt tip bled, she wrote:

_GUILTY OF RAPE AND ATTEMPTED MURDER_

_LEE BOWMAN (#59)_  
><em>DAVE KAROFSKY (#77)<em>  
><em>AZIMIO ADAMS (#92)<em>  
><em>JACOB BEN ISRAEL (NOBODY)<em>

She put out a hand for Santana, who stared at it with a mixture of curiosity and fear before hesitantly taking hold. Quinn helped the girl to her feet, clicked the cap back onto the marker and pointed it at the verdict on the wall. "Which one should suffer the most?"

Santana studied Quinn for a moment, her rich brown eyes steadfast, unblinking. They darkened to black flint as she turned them, lids narrowed, on the list of rapists. Raising her index finger, she let it hover near the first name, then suddenly dropped it to the second. She drew an invisible line through Dave Karofsky.

"Ready, set, hike," said Quinn.

xxx

The girls returned to the cafeteria minutes later, Quinn in the lead. She would have to work fast if she was going to pull this off before a teacher intercepted her. Lunchtime was almost up, and she had begun to lose some of her audience too. Luckily, Karofsky and Azimio were still clowning around for the occupants of their table, which included Shane and his damn football. Leaving Santana by the doorway with instructions to watch and wait, Quinn made a beeline for the human acne factory emptying his trash into a barrel by the exit. She snatched the tray from the boy's hands as she plowed by, his startled, "Hey!" falling on deaf ears. Flipping the tray facedown on a nearby tabletop, she scribbled her message on the back with thick, furious strokes of the permanent marker. Nice and big. Easy to read.

They were too busy lobbing the football across the table at each other to notice her at first. Shane spied her as he caught a pass from Azimio. Plunking the ball down in front of himself, he pinned it under his elbow and signaled over Azimio's shoulder. "We got company," he said.

Despite the heavy boots, she moved lithely into their midst—moved like she was a Cheerio again—stepping from floor to bench to table without breaking stride. Her grace went no further. She squashed it beneath the heel of her boot, along with Karofsky's leftover Jell-O. Styrofoam bowls and plastic spoons cracked, half-empty Mountain Dew cans toppled, and someone's Little Debbie snack cake burst inside the wrapper as she took a second to delight in chaos and destruction. The boys gaped up at her in amazement, as if she were some sort of demented, pink-haired deity they worshipped. But that infidel Shane swore at her, his elbow bashing against the table when she kicked the football out from under it. The ball wobbled through the air in a low arc and scattered a pile of class notes two girls were trading at the next table. It wasn't the spectacular kick Quinn had hoped for, but the racket it made and the girls' squeals got everyone's attention. She planted her feet firmly in the middle of the table and stretched both arms high above her head, the makeshift sign on display for all to see. She revolved in a slow circle, letting the entire cafeteria read her announcement before showing it to Karofsky.

He mouthed the words to himself, his cheeks flushing bright red—

_#77 IS GAY_

"What the hell?" said Azimio, just getting a glimpse of the tray too. "Girl, sit your ass down."

Quinn ignored him and flashed a spiteful grin at Karofsky. People were taking pictures with their cell phones, and she obliged them with another full turn. She would have kept going, but several things happened at once: Mr. Hughes, the history teacher who mistook lunchroom duty for naptime, was jarred awake by the commotion and stormed towards Quinn, gesturing for her to lower the sign; as if they sensed trouble brewing, Finn, Puck and Mike hustled over from their table; and Karofsky stood up on his seat, grabbing for the tray. He caught the corner of it, nearly wrenching it from her grasp. Quinn yanked back with all her strength. They began a tug of war that drew laughter and comments—"My money's on Fabray" "Holy shit, she _is _psycho" "Is he really gay?"—from the crowd. When she refused to let go, he released his end of the tray while she was pulling hers. McKinley lunch trays were not the flimsy kind found in fast food restaurants or elementary schools. They were heavy-duty slabs made of an ancient, durable plastic that had been around since at least the eighties. Quinn was sure the woodlike substance had knocked out her front teeth as, by her own momentum, it collided with her mouth. Frantically she ran her tongue along each tooth, checking. Still there, thank God. But there was a painful gash inside her upper lip, a bitter taste of blood. Red smears on the fingers she touched to her mouth.

Karofsky gazed mildly at her, making it clear that the sight of a hurt and bloodied girl had no affect on him. She gripped the tray in both hands and swung it at his face as hard as she could. It connected with a crunch, and he took a stumbling step backwards off the bench, swearing and clutching his nose. She lost track of him then, as several pairs of hands reached for her. Azimio had her by the leg, and she kicked out at him, her boot clipping him under the chin. His teeth snapped shut loudly. Strong arms encircled her from behind, dragging her away before she could land a second kick. Adrenaline pumping, she continued to wield the tray, fighting against whoever was hauling her off the table.

"Quinn. It's me. Stop."

The familiar voice brought Quinn back to reality, and she turned to face Finn when he stood her on the ground. He urged her chin up, his brow furrowed in concern as he examined her lip. "Think you need stitches," he said grimly, features contorting with anger. He started to push past her, a murderous glare trained on Karofsky and Azimio, but Mr. Hughes blocked his path.

"Cool your jets, Hudson," said the history teacher, a palm thrust out in warning. "Miss Fabray, principal's office. Now." He pointed to Karofsky and Azimio, who were poking and prodding at themselves, inspecting their faces for damage, while Puck stood guard. "You too."

Quinn swiped at the warm, wet trickle on her lips and tried not to wince. Her hands were shaking badly. She wanted to find a mirror to mourn in front of, but she'd probably just cry if she looked at herself right now. And that was not an option. Swallowing a mouthful of bloody saliva, she leaned over and placed the tray facedown on the table where her writing would be on view. Shane reached for it, but Mike had quicker reflexes. The dancer held the tray at chest level, its message directed at the crowd as he took the long route to discard of it, his stride much slower than usual.

While Mr. Hughes led the way to the principal's office, Finn fell into step beside Quinn, casting worried glances down at her. "I'm fine. Go watch out for Santana," she said softly, and nudged him towards the girl. "See if she wants lunch or something."

Volatile as Finn's relationship was with Santana, he and the rest of the boys from glee club had been eager to defend her since the attack. Immediately he obeyed Quinn's request and jogged ahead. He used his tall frame to shield Santana from the other boys as they passed through the exit. Still, she kept her gaze on the floor until Quinn approached. When their eyes met, Quinn gave her a small, crooked smile—too sore for anything bigger—and drew a checkmark in the air. Then she trailed after the teacher and football players, the hall echoing with every stomp of her combat boots.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hey there! Thank you, thank you, thank you to those of you who continue to read my story. Or, if you're just discovering it, thanks for giving it a chance. And giant group hug to the reviewers, because you guys keep me sane. (Although, the way this note is going, my sanity may be up for debate. One word: cappuccino.) Now for the bad news. It's another short chapter, guys. I'm sorry. Originally this and the previous chapter were going to be part of a single installment, along with the next two chapters to come. But they each took on a life of their own, and I had to split them so I could keep the updates vaguely on schedule. I promise the next two chapters at least will be about twice this long. Again, wrote this one before Finn outed Santana on the show, so please excuse his entire miserable existence in it. _Ptooey_. Also written before Santana almost got two motherfucking weeks' suspension for slapping his ugly mug, which kind of makes a punishment mentioned in this chapter seem... unrealistic, I guess. But whatever, Figgins can kiss it. Zero tolerance policy, my ass. _Ptooey, ptooey_. Okay, I'll shut up now. Except to say, please R&R. :)

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FIVE<strong>

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><p>"I told you I don't need anything from my locker."<p>

"Are you sure? You might have forgotten something." Brittany gave Santana's pinkie a slight tug, encouraging her to follow. "Let's go check."

"All right. Fine."

The annoyed tone didn't bother Brittany too much; Santana had always been short-tempered, even at the best of times. After the past week, she had more reason than ever to be pissed at life. But it cut deeply, almost to the bone, when the girl unlinked their fingers, shaking Brittany's hand off like it was excess water. With a stiff, awkward motion, Brittany hooked her thumbs on the straps of her backpack. The bag was heavier today, the added weight of Santana's books causing her to hunch forward. She hefted it up and trudged behind as Santana marched to her locker and entered the combination with three sharp flicks of her wrist. Anticipation growing as the door clanged open, Brittany forgot about her hurt feelings. She poked her head around the door, peering inside at the same time as Santana, and said, "Surprise!"

For several moments Santana only stared at the Cheerios uniform folded neatly at the bottom of her locker. It had taken quite a bit of stealth to put it there, and Brittany was proud of the accomplishment. Secret-keeping was not her strong suit, but she somehow made it past lunch without mentioning her summons to Coach Sylvester's office that morning. She gave herself indigestion gobbling down her homemade tuna sandwich and the bag of M&Ms stolen from her little sister's plastic Jack-o-Lantern; but she finished long before any of the other glee clubbers at her table. While Santana still picked at a salad and ate nothing but the croutons, Brittany had slipped away to transfer the brand new uniform from her own locker to this one. It was a last-ditch effort to make the girl smile. The things that normally cheered her up—silly observations, spontaneous hugs, halfsies of sour candy, cute notebook paper doodles—didn't work anymore. Brittany had almost run out of ideas until Sue presented her with the uniform, suggesting she be the one to deliver it. Now that plan proved to be a failure as well. Santana wasn't smiling.

Her hand stretched towards the red and white garments, then withdrew as if they were hot to the touch.

"Coach Sylvester had it shipped priority so it would get here fast," Brittany said, and finally reached for the sleeveless polyester top. She held it up by the shoulders and let it unfurl against her chest. Twisting side to side, she pointed to each of the shimmering school initials. "Remember how she wanted the letters to sparkle? First time in, like, ten years she's made changes to the uniform. And you get to try it out first."

Santana kept a blank expression and didn't even glance at the font. She seemed to be waiting for something, but it was unclear what that might be. Brittany began to fidget, embarrassed by the silence and her inability to fill it. She felt the way she did in class when her confident answers were followed by a dreadfully long pause, or worse—laughter. And after a while, Santana shook her head just like the teachers did. "I can't wear that," she sighed.

"You think it'll be too big?" Brittany held the top at arm's-length in front of Santana. The girl had lost a couple of pounds since returning to school three days earlier. Her jeans and sweater, which had been a perfect fit when she modeled them in the Macy's dressing room at the end of summer, hung loose where there used to be subtle curves. Weight loss, no matter how unnecessary, was usually cause for celebration, but now it worried Brittany. She hated to see Santana denying herself food, hated to think about the reason behind it. "Let's go try it on. I bet Sue'll have it taken in if—"

"I'm not talking about the size, Brittany. I mean I can't put the thing back on again, period. Not after what happened to my old one."

"Oh." Blushing, Brittany lowered her head and the shirt. In her excitement to provide a bright and shiny distraction, it hadn't occurred to her the gift would be a reminder of that horrible night. That night she almost lost her best friend, the person she loved most in the world. She could barely bring herself to put a name to what Santana had suffered (_rape_, she thought, and then, _there_), let alone replay in her mind the hellish scene she'd only heard about. For seventeen years she had been an optimist, choosing to ignore all the ugliness that surrounded her. It had always been easy to do because, until last Thursday, nothing bad had ever happened to her. "Well, maybe we can talk Coach into giving the whole uniform a makeover. We can offer to design it. Make it look completely different from this one."

"Oh, my God," Santana groaned. "You just don't get it, do you?" She snatched at the shirt and flung it against the back of her locker, then slammed the door shut. Her voice dropped to a growl when the noise caught the attention of a few passersby. "I'm done with Cheerios. I can't cheer with my arm in a sling. And even if I could, I don't want to. You think any of the other girls want a lesbian on their squad? Do you know what we would've done to someone like me not too long ago?"

"I won't let them be mean to you. And Sue—"

"Fuck Sue." The rage that darkened Santana's features was vicious and startling. Her empty brown eyes were suddenly alive, smoldering like embers. Her skin practically sizzled with the wildfire below its surface. Somehow she had never looked so beautiful. Or so terrifying. "She doesn't give a shit about me. She's using me as an excuse to stir up trouble. In a week or two she'll forget about the boycott, and you'll all be back on the field shaking your tits for those cocksuckers. But don't expect me to be out there with you. It's too much to ask."

Brittany glanced down at her Nikes and watched them turn into white blobs as tears welled in her eyes. Like an idiot, she had gone right on wearing them and the rest of the Cheerio attire, not stopping to consider its effect on Santana. She loved the uniform; loved the ritual of putting it on each morning; loved knowing that it didn't matter how foolishly she behaved academically, because her classmates still thought she was a rock star when she shimmied her pompoms. But she had given it up once, and she'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant Santana would forgive her. She would do almost anything for that. "I'll quit the squad too, then. Those cocksuckers can go to hell," she said resolutely, and dragged a sleeve across her damp cheeks. "And the Cheerios."

The blaze had died out by the time Brittany peeked up at Santana. Now she just looked tired and sad. She leaned her shoulder on the locker, then rested her head against it too. Brittany mirrored the pose on the locker beside it, their faces inches apart. Even when they were friends with benefits, she had rarely gotten the chance for this type of intimacy. Santana didn't allow it. She usually averted her eyes, as if there were something in them she didn't want Brittany to see. Whatever that something was, Brittany couldn't find it in this unwavering gaze. And that scared her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For everything."

"I know you are." Santana reached up to tap Brittany on the end of the nose, but her index finger retreated before it made contact. She tucked the hand into her pocket when Brittany tried to take it. "You don't have to quit Cheerios. It makes you happy," she said, her voice and smile careworn. "There's no reason for your life to be as screwed up as mine."

The minute the words left her mouth, a chubby kid in a Hawaiian shirt walked by and made a loud smooching noise in their direction. Brittany recognized him from Jacob Ben Israel's film crew, and from the time she and Santana had held his camera equipment while Puck deposited him in the dumpster. She had laughed till her sides ached while Puck grunted and strained to lift him high enough to be crammed inside the bin.

"He's a dumb fatty with hideous clothes," she said to Santana, who watched him over her immobilized shoulder as he wandered off. Tentatively, Brittany stroked the silky black strands of hair that fell across the other shoulder. She had hoped Santana would resume looking at her; instead, the girl turned her entire body away, her back to the lockers. The instant it pressed against them, she stood up ramrod straight.

"Christ. I wish the guys had just..." Santana gestured vaguely with her hand, slicing it through the air and letting it drop to her side. "I don't know. I shouldn't even be here."

Fear clutched at Brittany's chest, and she stepped around Santana so they were facing each other again. Scrunching down until they were eye to eye, she cupped a palm to Santana's cheek, gently preventing her from lowering her head any further. "Yes, you should," Brittany said in a solemn tone. "This is your school, and you're so brave for coming back, Santana. They're the ones who shouldn't be here."

This time, when Santana shook her head, it was almost imperceptible—little more than a twitch that could be felt but not seen. She covered Brittany's hand with her own, resting against it for a moment. Then she eased it down and held it in the space between them. "I don't feel very brave. I keep waking up with stomach aches thinking about this place," she said, grimacing. "I'm gonna flunk out because I can't concentrate. Every corner I turn, I'm afraid they'll be there. I skipped class and hid in the restroom yesterday because I saw Jacob at the drinking fountain outside home ec. How pathetic is that?"

"It's not pathetic. He did awful stuff to you." Brittany's own stomach churned as she recalled the graphic details of Jacob's assault on Santana. She had been trying to forget them since last Saturday. It hurt too much to think of someone as strong and vibrant as Santana—someone as adorable, smart and funny—being so degraded. Few things made Brittany truly angry, but that one did. "Sick, sick stuff."

Santana shuddered. "God, that smell."

Brittany watched helplessly as the girl continued to tremble, a glassy-eyed stare fixed on the uniform in front of her. Poor thing nearly jumped out of her skin when the bell rang. For Brittany, it served as a wake-up call too. After school on Monday, Quinn had informed her that it was now their responsibility to make the lives of Santana's rapists a living hell. Brittany hadn't taken Destructo Girl too seriously at the time. These days Quinn was to trouble as Rachel Berry was to solos. Her plan had already earned her four stitches and four days' suspension for breaking Karofsky's nose. Brittany had never been a fighter, and she couldn't imagine pulling off a stunt like Quinn's cafeteria riot. But the bell went off at the exact moment she came up with another idea, convincing her of its brilliance.

She lifted Santana's hand and kissed the back, then threaded it through the crook of her elbow, linking their arms. "Tomorrow," she said as they drifted towards the trig classroom.

"What?"

"Just promise me you'll come to school tomorrow. I've got something awesome to show you. Trust me, you won't want to miss it."

xxx

"I gotta hand it to you, Britt, I've done some messed up shit in my day, but this is by far _the_ nastiest." Puck held up the 32 oz. Big Quench cup by its brim and squinted at the liquid level inside the opaque plastic. He took an experimental whiff of the lid and quickly jerked away, his face contorting with disgust. Raising the cup like he was proposing a toast, he flashed his signature bad boy grin. "Kudos."

"My dad is going to sell my organs on the Asian black market," Mike lamented.

Tina patted him sympathetically on the arm, but cast a wary glance at the cup in his hands. She had opted for the 24 oz., which she dangled far away from her body, using just her fingertips, as if it were a poisonous snake she was wrangling. "I drank five bottled waters," she said, and began bouncing her knees again. "But I still couldn't fill mine."

"I've had so many Red Bulls, I won't sleep till I'm thirty," Puck said. His eyes did look a bit crazed. You could almost see tiny black and white hypnotist wheels spinning inside his pupils if you stared at them hard enough.

Artie spread his palms in the air, Harbinger fitness gloves signaling surrender. "May I remind you all that I am at a serious disadvantage here?" He gestured to the wheelchair he sat in, a Big Quench nestled at his side. "Please, for the love of God, no friendly fire."

"I wish the slush hadn't melted." Brittany frowned at the sallow contents of her cup—funny how it resembled lemonade—and gave it a small swirl, keeping a firm grip on the middle to prevent sloshing. "But at least my hands are warm."

"Oh, God," Tina moaned. "I don't think I can do this. It's so gross."

"Sure you can. Just aim straight," Brittany said, with an easy shrug. When none of her friends appeared convinced, she tilted her head imploringly. She widened her eyes, donned her sweetest smile. "Come on, guys. We have a deal, remember? Dinner at Breadstix, my treat. And don't forget why we're doing this." She glanced towards the rapidly emptying parking lot where Kermie, her green VW Beetle, was angled a safe distance from the dumpster, but close enough that his occupant had a first-class view through the windshield. After school had been dismissed five minutes earlier, Brittany had whisked Santana out of the building and into the vehicle with few explanations. Now the girl waited in the passenger seat, her curiosity evident, even from several yards away. She returned Brittany's enthusiastic wave with a dubious little waggle of her fingers.

Dropping the charming act, Brittany spoke sincerely to the others: "For Santana. She's so sad, you guys. I'm really worried about her. I know pee slushies aren't gonna make her feel better, but at least she'll see there are people at this school who are on her side. All of you are, right?"

Puck gazed out at the car for a moment, his jaw tensing. He stepped forward first. "My little sister will go here in a few years. And maybe Beth. Anybody ever hurt them like that..." Shaking his bowed head, he extended his arm and the Big Quench. "Santana's never been into any of that crap."

Mike was next. "I don't know her that well, but I've heard them talking about her in the locker room... It's revolting. She doesn't deserve that." He put his cup beside Puck's, and Tina's followed soon after. "She stopped wearing makeup," the girl said. When the boys gave her a questioning look, she added, "It's bad."

One by one they turned to Artie, who was leaning heavily on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled in front of his chin. His eyes traveled over each expectant face, and as they landed on Brittany, his features softened into a fond smile. "Family takes care of its own," he said, joining his cup with the rest. Finally, Brittany added hers to the mix, heart swelling with appreciation and pride. She had the most amazing friends a girl could ask for. But the group hug would have to wait. "For Santana," she said solemnly.

"For Santana," they all agreed.

"Here they come." Tina shooed everyone back to their positions, forming a single line parallel to the dumpster. Five plastic lids fluttered to the ground. Approaching from around the corner, their target was absorbed in conversation with the taller boy at his side. It had been a unanimous decision that Finn Hudson should be the one to lure Jacob Ben Israel to this section of the lot—Puck or Brittany would have been immediate red flags; Mike didn't let Tina out of his sight on campus anymore; and Artie didn't have the mobility required to leap aside if necessary, or to catch a rat if it tried to flee. Finn had the strength, the speed and the reputation as a protective big brother type. Plus, Rachel Berry was his girlfriend, and Jacob took every opportunity to live vicariously through him. But it wasn't Rachel they were discussing as they drew near.

"She didn't suck you off?" Jacob sounded giddy, walking along on his toes as if he might start skipping at any moment. He grinned up at Finn with self-satisfaction. "You missed out. I thought my eyes were going to roll into the back of my head."

There were bright red splotches on Finn's face and neck as he rounded the dumpster and came to a halt, fists clenched. Jacob's footsteps slowed, but when he caught sight of the grim-faced crew before him, he dropped his book bag and backpedaled wildly. Finn's arms shot out at once, and he snagged Jacob by the collar of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. With impressive ease, Finn hoisted the boy off the ground and hooked his puffer vest on a gnarled latch, long since broken, that jutted up from the ledge of the open trash bin.

Jacob flailed and yelped, reminding Brittany of a writhing piglet minus the cuteness. His legs bicycled at the air as he slumped inside the zipped vest that was keeping him aloft. "What are you going to do? What is that?" he asked shrilly, as Finn grabbed the brimming 32-ouncer he had stowed against the dumpster wheel minutes ago. "Oh, my God. Let me down!"

Finn stalked over to his friends, falling into line with a resolute nod at Brittany. He flipped the top off his Big Quench.

"She's a liar. I didn't—"

In unison the six glee clubbers doused Jacob mid-sentence. Just for a second, he went absolutely silent—expression frozen in horror, wet hair drooping in front of his eyes. Then he made a noise like Lord Tubbington hacking up a hairball, and spouted a stream of urine from his mouth. Turning a cadaverous shade of white, he continued to sputter and gag so deeply that Brittany felt it in the back of her own throat. She was certain she would spew if and when he did; but Puck rushed forward, signaling to Finn, and together the boys up-ended Jacob into the trash, slamming the lid closed. Puck kicked the side of the bin and drummed savagely on the top with his fists. He chest-bumped Finn, their high-pitched giggles bordering on girlish as they both pulled a face and shook moisture off their palms. Miserable groans came from inside the dumpster.

"Teacher, teacher," Tina said in a panic, while everyone was sharing a group high-five without actually touching each other. Discarding their cups where they stood, they parted ways before Ms. Castle, exiting a side door of the building, managed to teeter any closer.

Mike and Tina waved to her as they scurried past, arm in arm.

Finn whistled up at the sky as he sauntered to his truck.

Puck wheeled Artie away at breakneck speed, hooting like he was on a rollercoaster.

"I love you guys," Brittany called as she sprinted towards Kermie and ducked into the driver's seat. She drove to the opposite end of the lot, distancing herself from the crime scene. After a quick peek in the rearview mirror to ensure no one was in pursuit, she gazed over at her passenger. They stared at each other for a full minute without speaking.

"What the holy sweet hell just happened?" Santana finally asked. "Was that...?"

"Pee slushies." Brittany nodded. "We were defending your honor."

"With piss?"

The incredulous tone made Brittany's spirits sink. "Are you mad?"

Santana leaned against the headrest, contemplating the cars on the busy main street. Half a dozen went by before she let her breath out with a heavy whoosh, as if she'd been holding it in too long. She closed her eyes, and her body began to quake. Dejectedly, Brittany sagged against the steering wheel, wanting to drop her forehead against it to cry, too. But then, as a small, mirthful sound escaped Santana's lips, Brittany realized the girl had burst into laughter, not tears. There was a brittle edge to the laugh that hadn't been there a week ago, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Brittany beamed.

"No, I'm not mad," Santana said when she regained composure, giving a little sigh. "Thoroughly grossed out, yeah. But not mad."

"Tell me about it. I'll never drink another Mountain Dew slushie again."

Santana crinkled her nose. "How did you get them all to agree to that?"

"Well, it's a long, funny story. But do you mind if I drive you home while I tell it?" Brittany began to fidget in her seat, legs jiggling uncontrollably. "I drank a whole liter of Dr. Pepper in, like, two minutes. I really need to use your bathroom."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **1.) I changed the layout of the choir room a bit in this chapter. 2.) I don't know about on the show, but my Rachel can play piano. 3.) Pretend they didn't steal my Pezberry thunder in "Hold on to Sixteen." 4.) Gleek1990: I meant Quinntana in the friendship sense when I updated the summary, but I have lots more planned for those two... so... wait and see. :)

Also...

I'm considering putting updates to this story on hiatus until I've finished it. Honestly, the lack of reviews has been really discouraging, and I was recently told that some people don't think I'm handling the story/characters properly and/or realistically, which has also been a downer. I love this story and I want to complete it, so I feel like maybe I should just focus on writing it and post the rest when I'm done and the negative opinions, or lack of opinions, won't bother me as much. But I've only gotten to a fraction of what I have planned, and it will probably be a few more months until I've finished. I hate to leave you guys hanging for that long. So I'm still debating. I'm not trying to blackmail reviews out of people, nor do I expect only positive reviews. I just wanted to let you guys know what's going on, in case I disappear for a while. And I so appreciate those of you who do continue to read and review. Thank you.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX<strong>

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><p>"You don't have to baby-sit me, you know."<p>

Rachel centered her chickpea salad sandwich on its tinfoil wrapper, careful not to let any crust stray outside the shiny square. There were four napkins spread open on the seat of the chair, but she still didn't want to chance her lunch coming in contact with its surface. Especially since she had used two slices of the Kamut bread her fathers drove all the way to Columbus to buy at Trader Joe's because it was her favorite. Holding up her index finger, she chewed furiously on the large bite she'd just taken when Santana spoke. Her munching was loud in the empty choir room, and she wished again that she'd packed a quieter meal. Everything from her toasted bread to the foil to the thermos of soup she didn't have a spoon for—and thus had to slurp—was deafening as she and Santana dined without conversation. She sounded like her nose should be buried in a trough; meanwhile, Santana mutilated her PB&J in silence, tearing it into chunks she didn't eat and licking the peanut butter off her fingers.

"That's not what I'm doing," Rachel said when her mouth was no longer full. She dabbed a napkin to the corners of her lips, then smoothed it back over her skirt. "I just didn't think you should eat alone. I did it every day of freshman year. There's nothing more depressing." Dusting crumbs from her blouse, she tilted her head to the side and smiled. "I'm here as a friend."

"I have too many friends," Santana said softly, placing emphasis on the final word. A blob of grape jelly clung to one of her unpainted fingernails. She flicked it onto the Saran Wrap in her lap and looked at the carnage of her sandwich with distaste. Crumpling the plastic around it, she laid it on the chair beside her and picked up the bottle of chocolate milk she hadn't opened yet. She gave it a vigorous shake, but her zeal faded when she seemed to remember the sling on her other arm.

Rachel tried not to let her pity show as she watched Santana clamp the bottle between her knees and struggle to twist the sealed cap off with one hand. She decided to let the rebuff slide. This was Santana Lopez she was talking to after all; they would probably never be bosom buddies. But it had to be torturous for someone so fierce and independent to suddenly need help with even simple tasks like opening a Nesquik. And while everyone was accommodating—excruciatingly so—Rachel could tell no one knew what to say to the girl anymore. They were busy waging wars in her name, but few of them could look her in the eye. Now, for example, Sue Sylvester had the Cheerios staging a silent protest, complete with duct-taped mouths, in the cafeteria while the football team sold T-shirts promoting their next game. But other than Brittany, none of the cheerleaders had spent time with Santana since the rape. Rachel doubted any of them noticed the girl stealing away to the choir room to eat lunch in private, far from the big scene, either.

"Well, then, don't think of me as a friend." Rachel put out her hand, offering assistance. She unscrewed the cap and returned the bottle to Santana as if it were routine, like passing each other worksheets during class. "Think of me as a... pesky but lovable, pint-sized companion who cares about your well-being. I'm your Jiminy Cricket."

Eyebrows arched to record heights, Santana glanced sideways at Rachel and took a swig of milk. She ruminated on the mouthful, cheeks bulging, then swallowed it and wiped her lips on the back of her hand. "You do sort of sound like a cricket when you sing."

There were no words, just a tiny, dismayed squeak, when Rachel's mouth fell open in abject horror.

"Kidding, Berry."

"Oh, thank God." Palm pressed to her chest, Rachel sank back in her chair. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

Santana rolled her eyes, but there was a faint glimmer of amusement in them as she took another slow sip. Following suit, Rachel drank from her thermos with caution, though the soup inside had cooled to a lukewarm temperature. She listened to the clock on the wall, treating it as a metronome and counting off several ticks before proceeding in what she hoped was a fluid, casual manner. "Speaking of singing. When do you think you'll return to New Directions? We've really missed you this week. And loath as I am to admit it, none of us can pull off those sultry, Dusty Springfield-esque undertones quite like you. I never realized how much richer and more seasoned we sound when you're with us."

Inwardly she cringed and told herself not to lay it on so thick. Knowing Santana and her cynicism, she would probably view the compliments as ass-kissing or a selfish tactic to improve the group for competition. But Rachel had meant what she said. Even with all the antipathy between them, she couldn't deny talent when she heard it. Santana's voice had a soulful maturity beyond her years. However, the girl looked anything but grown-up right now.

Slumped down in her seat, a chocolate milk mustache above her upper lip, rail-thin body concealed beneath a black sweater, black leggings and black flats, Santana had never looked more vulnerable and waiflike. She fiddled with the Nesquik label, scratching out the cartoon bunny's face with her thumbnail, and shrugged her shoulder. "I don't know. Haven't been in the mood to sing lately. I guess being gang raped and left for dead will do that to you."

Rachel blanched and put the thermos aside, her appetite instantly gone. What Jacob and the other boys had done was appalling—it terrified her, made her skin crawl. Last Saturday, after standing in Santana's bedroom as the girl recounted being so viciously tortured, Rachel hadn't felt safe tucked in her own bed later that night. She tossed and turned over the weekend and considered faking illness on Monday morning so her fathers would let her stay home from school. It was frightening to think that she'd spent time alone with one of the rapists, had even fended off a few of his advances herself. But what haunted Rachel more than anything else, what made her feel truly despicable, was that—just for a fleeting moment when she first heard the news—a small part of her had wondered if Santana got what she deserved. Rape was inexcusable, of course, and at the time, Rachel didn't known about the strangulation. Still, some deep-down, irrepressible voice had questioned if Santana brought the attack on herself, or if it happened at all. Perhaps she led the boys on and wouldn't follow through; perhaps she was lying about the whole thing. Both thoughts were banished from Rachel's mind after she left the Lopez residence. And she had devoted the past week of school to finding subtle ways to apologize to Santana.

"I imagine so," Rachel said in a delicate murmur. She folded the napkin in her lap and rested it on her chair, then moved over two places, settling into the empty seat between her makeshift table and Santana. "But I know how much you love glee club. Maybe if you came back it would help you start to... heal a little? Whenever I'm depressed, music always makes me feel better."

"Since when do _you _get depressed?" Santana kept her eyes on the milk bottle, conferring with the scar-faced bunny instead of Rachel.

"I get sad sometimes." _Says the girl wearing a polka dot skirt and smiling ladybug barrettes_, Rachel thought. She played absently with the red sash woven through her belt loops and tied in a bow at her waist. "It's not easy being an outcast."

Santana gazed askance at the sash until Rachel's fingers were still. "Yeah, well, I'm not sad or depressed. And I'm not a fucking outcast." Her voice tightened, rising in crescendo as she listed the things she was not. "I'm just pissed off, okay? And singing about it isn't going to do me a damn bit of good."

Although Rachel pressed her lips together and nodded contritely, she didn't believe for a second that Santana wasn't hurting. Her grief was palpable, and it stirred Rachel's compassion. She would risk a verbal bashing if it meant getting through to this lost and broken girl. "Spending time with people who care about you might, though," she said gently. "I don't think it's a coincidence you came to this room, Santana. You're here because it's where you belong."

"Jesus Christ, stop reading so much into everything," Santana snapped. "I'm here because it was the only door that was open. I would have kept on going if I'd known I'd have to sit here and listen to your Pollyanna bullshit. I've seen that movie. She falls out of a tree and ends up a cripple. Because that's the kind of fucked up shit life really does to you." To punctuate, she slammed the Nesquik bottle down on the chair beside her, a jet of chocolate milk erupting from the open top. When she pulled her hand away to avoid the splash, the bottle tipped over and gushed a beige waterfall onto the floor. "Goddammit!"

"I'll get it." Springing from her seat, Rachel gathered the stack of napkins she had hoarded from the cafeteria and knelt to mop up the expanding puddle. She absorbed most of it and rushed to the trash basket by the door, cradling the soggy, dripping wad in her palms. Once it was disposed of, she hurried back to wipe up the remaining streaks of liquid. As she was bent down, drying off the chair leg, she heard a timid whisper overhead:

"I'm afraid I can't sing anymore."

Rachel glanced up in surprise, a pang of sadness going through her at the sight of Santana's agonized face. Slowly she stood and let the napkins drop to the floor. "What?"

"My throat has been so messed up after everything that's happened. I'm worried he ruined my voice."

The achingly honest confession tore at Rachel's heart. Nothing she'd ever experienced came close to the torment Santana had survived, but she did understand the fear of having her most beloved gift—her music—stolen from her. People could laugh all they wanted, pronouncing her a drama queen or a silly little girl, but what was so ridiculous about not wanting to lose the thing that brought her the most joy? The one perfect thing that never let her down, mocked her or told her she wasn't good enough? Without it, she would be missing a piece of her soul, an essential part of herself. She had seen that spark in Santana, too; the girl never looked happier than when she was singing and dancing with her fellow glee clubbers. In those moments, she and Rachel weren't so very different. In those moments, they were true friends.

"Have you tried singing at all?" Rachel asked. "Just to be sure?"

Santana shook her head. Small dimples formed in her chin as it trembled.

"Come on." Rachel held out her hand, palm turned upwards in quiet invitation. She waited patiently for Santana to take it, then led the girl to the shiny Baldwin piano situated in the middle of the room. Careful not to scrape the floor, she eased the bench from its nook, smoothed the back of her skirt and patted the space next to her as she sat down. "I promise I won't tell anyone," she said when Santana gazed at the spot with apprehension. Gradually the girl slid in beside her, and Rachel lifted the fallboard, exposing the row of keys underneath. She played a few warm-up chords and did a mental scan of all the songs in her repertoire, as if she were scrolling an iPod.

_Aha_. _Got it_.

"Do you know this one?" she asked, drifting from practice notes to the intro of her favorite Carole King song without pause.

Santana listened for a moment, watching Rachel's fingers glide across the keys. There was a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, and she nodded.

"I'll take the first verse, you take the chorus?"

Another nod.

"Mmm," Rachel hummed, a slow smile spreading over her features as she began to sing in a warm, conversational tone, "When you're down and troubled..." On the second line, she continued with a bit more musicality, but kept it simple and tender, like a lullaby:

"_And you need some love and care  
>And nothing, oh nothing, is going right<br>Just close your eyes and think of me  
>And soon I will be there<em>  
><em>To brighten up even your darkest night<em>"

She played into the chorus twice, getting no response. On the third try, Santana took a deep breath and sang the first few lines in a voice that—although fragile—contained an unmistakable touch of velvet:

"_You just call out my name_  
><em>And you know wherever I am<em>  
><em>I'll come running to see you again<em>

Beaming, Rachel nodded encouragement when the voice grew steadily stronger, her own emotions swelling as the singer poured hers into the song.

"_Winter, spring, summer or fall  
>All you have to do is call<br>And I'll be there  
>You've got a friend<em>"

"_You've got a friend_," Rachel echoed, letting the last notes fade off on the piano. She withdrew her hands from the keys, clasped them in her lap, and turned to offer Santana a sincere opinion of what she'd just heard—

"Beautiful."

For the first time that week, Rachel caught a glimpse of the old Santana—confident, radiant and very, very pleased with herself. Other than the dark circles under her eyes and the low ponytail draped limply over her shoulder, there wasn't a trace of the sullen, brooding girl she had become. "Right?" she said, grinning.

"We should sing together more often."

"Don't push it."

They exchanged a light laugh and a playful nudge to the arm, and when the silence came again, it was no longer awkward. Rachel knew she probably would spoil the moment if she kept going, but she decided to follow her instincts anyway. No day but today.

"At the risk of sounding like a schmaltzy Disney heroine..." Rachel ran her finger along the key slip of the piano, collecting a fine layer of dust from the glossy black surface. She brushed it off with her thumb and lowered her hand guardedly, resting it on top of Santana's. The girl didn't take it, but she didn't pull away, either. "Those aren't just lyrics in a song. If there's ever anything I can do, or if you ever need to talk about anything, I'm here for you. I'm actually a really good listener, believe it or not."

Santana looked down at their hands on her thigh, a dark cloud passing across her face. She toyed with Rachel's fingers for a while, lifting them one by one to examine the nails, flexing them at the knuckle, sizing them up against her own. When the inspection was through, she said, "My parents got into an argument last night. They hardly ever fight like that. I know it's because of me. They're so stressed out about everything." She heaved a weary sigh. "And they hate me now."

"Why would they hate you?" Rachel asked in alarm. She had never spoken to Santana's parents until visiting their home over the weekend, but they seemed like lovely people. Especially Mrs. Lopez, who had said "thank you" and "gracias" interchangeably at least a dozen times while hugging Rachel, Quinn and Brittany goodbye on the doorstep. She was so grateful that they stopped by to see her daughter.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I'm a whore and a lesbian and a huge fucking embarrassment. What's there to love?"

"I seriously doubt they think you're a whore or an embarrassment. You're neither of those things." Rachel slipped an arm behind Santana, looping it gently at her waist. "You're a beautiful, smart, talented girl."

"How can you say that?" Santana sounded angry to be considered anything less than disgraceful. "Look at what I did with Finn. I don't give a shit about that guy, but that didn't stop me from screwing him. Or any of the other guys I've been with. Wouldn't your dads be ashamed if they found out you were like that?"

The crude reference to Finn stung like salt on an open wound, and Rachel nearly recoiled. Swallowing her pride, she forced her arm to stay put. She wasn't sure she could ever completely get over Finn giving himself away to Santana, but she had done her best to forgive him and move on. That meant forgiving Santana as well. Knowing the tryst meant nothing to either party didn't make it easier to accept; it did, however, remind Rachel that she had almost made the same mistake with Noah. And she'd been sorely tempted to sleep with both Finn and Jesse St. James. She wasn't morally superior to Santana just because she lost her nerve and backed out of each opportunity at the last second. Although, listening to the girl criticize herself, Rachel wondered if it was less about nerve, more about self-worth. Maybe Santana worked so hard to tear everyone else down because she didn't like herself much.

"They would be concerned about why I'd made those choices. And probably wish that I hadn't," Rachel admitted. "But they wouldn't stop loving me because of it. Parents love their kids unconditionally, Santana, and yours are no different. I saw the painting of you and your mom that hangs in your living room. It's gorgeous. There's no way she could have captured you so vividly if she didn't see you and love you for exactly who you are."

Santana sniffled and swiped the heel of her palm under her nose. Her eyes were dry when she gazed at Rachel, but the pain behind them was infinite. "She painted that before even I knew I was a lesbian. What if she doesn't feel that way now?"

"Have you tried talking to her about it?"

Santana shook her head. "I don't know how," she said thinly. "She and my dad are too wrapped up in all the other stuff. It's all they can think about. It's all _I _can think about. We can barely have a normal conversation anymore—how'm I supposed to talk to them about being gay?"

The recent revelation that Santana was a lesbian hadn't really been a revelation to Rachel. There were whispers of it among the glee clubbers as far back as sophomore year, but Rachel didn't partake in the gossip like some of the others. Sexual orientation didn't change her opinion of a person, and frankly, it wasn't anyone else's business. Growing up with same-sex parents, and years of involvement in the LGBT community, had made her extra sensitive to the issue. Her father, Simon, still got choked up when he told the story of being outed by his own brother, who wouldn't accept him to this day. No one deserved to be forced out of the closet like that; and so, Rachel had ignored the rumors, figuring that if Santana was gay, the announcement was hers alone to make. Now, though, she wished she'd at least given the girl—who looked absolutely lost—a few words of support. Sometimes, Rachel forgot that not everyone was as comfortable with the topic as she.

"I have an idea," she said, and patted Santana once on the hip. "Why don't you come over to my house tomorrow, and I'll introduce you to my dads? They've been out to their families for years, and I'm sure they'd be happy to give you some advice or answer any questions you have."

"I don't know..."

"They're really sweet and easy to talk to. And they would love to meet you. They've been fans of yours since 'Valerie.' Practically groupies. I'm actually rather jealous."

Santana bit her bottom lip, a skeptical expression on her face.

"Okay, then..." Rachel thought for a moment and tossed out the first thing that popped into her mind, half-expecting to be laughed right off the piano bench: "Come to my house for a sleepover. That way you'll already be there, get to meet them. No pressure. If you decide you want to talk to them, I'll let them know. If not, we can just hang out"—insert goading smile—"It will give you a little time away from your parents too. Help ease the stress."

"Ugh. You're so damn... _nice_," Santana said, managing to add a negative inflection to the compliment. But she also sounded impressed. "I've been a bitch to you."

"Pfft." Rachel gave a dismissive flutter of her hand. "The best performers thrive on adversity. You're just preparing me to be a _huge_ star."

With a small groan of laughter, Santana sagged against Rachel as if the joke were too corny to bear. A moment later, she sighed and let her head drop onto the shoulder nearby. She became so still and quiet that Rachel craned forward to see if she had nodded off. When two coffee-brown eyes peered up from beneath the canopy of dark bangs, Rachel said, "I'll invite Brittany and Quinn as buffers. We'll make it a full-blown slumber party. Who knows, we might even have fun. Or worse yet, start to like each other." Selecting a pair of bass notes on the keyboard, she played a slow, ominous staccato—duh duhn, duh duhn—that gradually gained speed until Santana cracked a smile and _Jaws_ himself could have burst from inside the piano.

Catching Rachel by the wrist, Santana dragged her hand away from the keys. "All right, geez. If you're that desperate to spend time with me, I'll come to your stupid house. But we're not watching _Annie_ or playing friggin' Barbra Streisand Monopoly."

"Oh, my God, Barbra Streisand Monopoly. Is that a real thing?"

"Berry."

"Kidding." Rachel flashed a toothy grin, then confided in a whisper, "I'm going to hug you now, okay?"

Santana rolled her eyes but didn't object as Rachel encircled her waist with both arms, giving a light squeeze. She had just relaxed into the embrace when a voice from the doorway said, "Wow, Lo, you really get around."

Drawing a sharp breath, Santana jerked forward like someone had slammed on the brakes to a fast-moving car. Her entire body went rigid as she doubled over and clutched tightly at Rachel's arm. Wincing, Rachel pried herself from the grip, but kept a protective hold on Santana, urging the terrified girl to lean into her chest, head tucked under her chin. Stroking the soft black hair, Rachel cast a wary glance at the door to see who had caused such a strong reaction. Her own heart seized up in fear at the sight of Lee Bowman standing there with his cocky smirk, blocking the only exit in the room. Tall and muscular, hands on his hips so that his unzipped letterman jacket appeared even wider, he filled most of the doorway. Until he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"First that pinhead Brittany, then that waste of hot ass Fabray," he said, sauntering over to prop his elbows on the closed lid of the piano. "Now this..." He looked Rachel up and down, his lip curled in disdain. "Who are you again?"

Rachel couldn't tell whose heart was beating so wildly—hers or Santana's. Every last instinct screamed at her to bolt from the room, but Santana was rooted to the piano bench, too frightened to move. Rachel kept a firm hold on the girl and glared at Lee with a defiance she didn't feel. "Rachel Berry," she said curtly, and tossed a lock of hair off her shoulder. He knew damn well who she was. During freshman year he had nicknamed her Auschwitz, but he soon discovered that her real name provided more material for the dirty limericks he composed under her YouTube videos. Sometimes he recited them in the halls after he and his friends bombarded her with slushies. He always did like to travel in a pack.

"Oh, right. I recognize you now." Lee reached into his back pocket, producing the cell phone Rachel had last seen when she placed it in Santana's basket the night of the Halloween festival. He activated the touchscreen, revealing the background photo of her with a father on either side, both planting sound kisses to her cheeks. She had taken that picture after they presented her with the phone as an early birthday gift, just for being "the best daughter two guys could ask for."

"Cute family," Lee said snidely, and then, as he pitched the phone at Rachel: "Think fast."

For all her grace on the dance floor, Rachel lacked coordination at anything resembling sports—especially impromptu games of catch. Her normal response was to duck and cover, but she had someone else to worry about at the moment. She caught the phone reflexively in one hand a second before it could hit her or Santana in the face. Santana still flinched and whimpered as if she'd been struck, and a powerful tremor ran down her spine when Rachel lowered the phone into her own lap. Tucking the device out of view, Rachel shot a hateful look at Lee.

"Been meaning to give you that all week," he said. "You should be careful who you let hold onto your stuff. There was some disturbing shit on there. I deleted most of it for you, but Lo and her bestie left you a few raunchy snapshots." He tsked his tongue rapidly and tilted his head to peer at Santana, who wouldn't acknowledge him. "Naughty girls. Figured I'd let her explain those to you herself. Something like that could really call a girl's character into question if it got out."

"It was just a stupid joke," Santana said, her breath catching. She sat back enough to gaze at Rachel with wide, desperate eyes. "We were just being stupid and mean and taking pictures for you to find later. I forgot about them. I'm sorry."

Rachel wasn't too surprised to find out Santana had used the phone for mischief-making. She'd been apprehensive about trusting the girl with it for that very reason, but decided to give Santana the benefit of the doubt. It didn't matter now that the trust had been broken. As cruel and thoughtless as Santana's pranks could be, they paled in comparison to what she had suffered. If anything, Rachel felt like she should be the one apologizing. It sickened her to know she had contributed somewhat—even in the most inadvertent way—to the pain that visibly twisted Santana up in knots and made her so fearful of losing a newfound ally.

"It's okay. You're not the one to blame here." Rachel clasped Santana by the hand and scooted to the edge of the bench. "Come on, let's go find someplace private and delete the pictures." To her relief, Santana started to follow, but Lee stepped into their path and prevented Rachel from standing. His chest was inches from her face, and she caught a whiff of a familiar scent. _Note to self: Tell Finn to change his body spray_.

"Rude," he said. "I'm not finished talking."

"Well, we're finished listening," said Rachel. She turned to slide out the other end of the bench, but Lee grabbed her arm, his long fingers curling completely around her biceps with room to spare. He hoisted her off the seat and gave a nasty little yank that tore her hand away from Santana.

"Fine, then. You go rehearse for your Broadway debut as Cousin It." Lee tugged Rachel aside and released her with a push that sent her stumbling forward a few steps. He flopped down next to Santana on the bench, facing the opposite direction, mile-long legs stretched out in front of him. The piano emitted a discordant cry as he leaned back and rested his elbows on the keyboard. "But I need a word with Morticia."

When Santana scrambled to get up, Lee clamped a hand on her good shoulder and forced her heavily onto the seat again. She gasped and tried to squirm away, but he gathered a handful of her sweater in his fist, pulling the collar taut at the neck.

"I'm getting a teacher," Rachel warned, unable to control the shrill note in her voice. Twirling on her heel, she marched towards the exit—phone clenched in one hand, a fist in the other, arms swinging straight at her sides. She intended to fling the door open and yell at the top of her lungs. And she could yell.

"On second thought..."

By the time Rachel realized what that meant, Lee was already right behind her. She let out a startled squeal as he hooked her around the waist, lifting her feet off the ground while they were still in motion. Not only was he quick as lightning and frightfully strong—he'd just picked up 98 pounds without so much as a grunt of effort—he also seemed to be a mind reader; the moment she opened her mouth to scream, he smothered it with his palm, pinning her head to his shoulder. In panic mode her brain made strange observations, like how smooth his skin was. His hands had none of the rough spots or calluses Finn had earned working at Hummel Tires & Lube all summer.

"Stay," Lee rumbled into her hair, his lips grazing her ear. "You need to hear this, too." He carried her back to the piano bench and sat down, perching her on his lap as if she were a small child. His leg roped both of hers when she began kicking. The tighter he constricted around her, the more claustrophobic she became, blindly writhing in his arms. His grip loosened at her middle as she arched her body, and for a moment she thought he might actually let her go. Instead, he grasped Santana's wrist as she sat there frozen in terror, watching the scene unfold. He gave it a sharp twist, bending her arm to an unnatural position behind her back until she shrieked through gritted teeth.

"Don't make me break the other one, Rachel," he said.

Rachel wilted against him, breathing hard through her nose. She inhaled her own tears as they spilled into the crevices between her flesh and his. Clutching his wrist in her free hand, she shook her head as well as she could with him restraining it.

"Okay, good. Then I'll get right to the point before you start snotting all over me with those AIDS germs you bring from home." Lee relaxed his tense muscles, but didn't release either captive. He leaned into Santana and rested his chin on her shoulder, guiding Rachel with him. She had no choice but to bury her face in the sleeve of Santana's sweater. Together, they trembled—and Rachel wept—as Lee murmured to them in a low, dangerous tone: "It's time for you to tell the rest of those glee buttfucks to leave me and the guys alone. At first it was kind of cute, with the little signs and the golden showers, but now it's really starting to piss me off. So, these protests in the cafeteria and all the macho bullshit in the locker room is going to stop. If one more person TP's my house or slashes my tires or writes 'rapist' on my jersey, I might end up losing my temper. But if you guys mind your own business like I've been trying to, we won't have a problem. No one's videos or pictures will get posted on the Internet. Nobody's boyfriend will get the living crap kicked out of him. And everybody's parents can stay blissfully unaware of just how much bigotry there is in this town. Sound like a plan?"

Santana hadn't been wrong. _That voice_. It turned Rachel's stomach almost as much as the feeling of his crotch pressed against her backside. She didn't even know about half the things he had mentioned. Quinn's attempt to out Karofsky took place while Rachel was returning a library book, but she had seen the pictures on Facebook and Twitter. It was admirable that Quinn wanted to stand up for Santana, and the iconic and highly dramatic way she got her message across deserved applause. But Rachel wasn't sorry to have missed it. And she'd been right behind Mercedes and Kurt on their way out the door after Brittany used the words "pee" and "slushie" together in a sentence during the emergency meeting she had called yesterday morning. Rachel didn't believe revenge, especially the kind that resulted in stitches, suspension, or distribution of bodily fluids, would solve anything. She had thought Santana would benefit from a kinder, more peaceful approach.

Look where that got them.

Rachel answered the question with a vigorous nod. Santana must have done the same, because a moment later Lee sat up straight and untwisted her arm. She exhaled a gush of air as the limb drooped to her side. Both of her eyes were watering profusely, but she couldn't wipe them with Lee still holding onto her wrist. He was like a damn leech refusing to let go, this guy.

_Lee the Leech_, Rachel thought. _A clinging, disgusting worm, out for blood_.

"Great. See how easy that was?" he said, nothing short of cheerful. He shifted his knees up and down, jouncing Rachel in his lap. "Hey, Dingleberry, before I go, why don't you take a look at the pictures Lo left you? Give you an idea of what a sweet and innocent little victim she really is."

Rachel cast a sidelong glance at Santana. Their eyes met briefly, then Santana hung her head and turned her face away. Prompted by another jounce against Lee's pelvis, Rachel lifted the phone and jammed at the buttons, hot tears of frustration blurring her vision. Anything to make him leave sooner. Anything to get his filthy hands off of them. She skimmed rapidly through the images, doing her best not to focus on the bleary screen. The glimpses she caught weren't that scandalous at first—mostly a lot of provocative poses that were typical of Santana and Brittany; but further on there were a few panty shots, followed by Brittany mooning the camera; Santana's hand swatting the blonde's bare rear end; both girls and Quinn flipping the camera off from various angles; each of the trio with their heads titled back, pretending to guzzle from a flask; and at the end, Santana laughing as she tried to peel up the tight layers of her Cheerios tops so she could flash the camera. She managed it in the last one, her cleavage and black bra unabashedly on display.

When Rachel started to lower the phone, Lee discouraged her with a nudge of his knee. "She ever show 'em to you for real?" he asked, and nuzzled at her hair.

"Hm-mmm." Rachel shook her head quickly.

"You ever show her yours?"

Pulse racing, Rachel put all her strength into shoving his forearm and forcing his hand away from her mouth. She managed a loud, "Hel—" before he slammed it back into place, trapping one of her arms beneath his. He dug his elbow into her side, prodding at her ribs, until she cringed and stopped struggling.

"You know she's into that sort of thing," he continued, as if there had been no interruption. "And since you were raised by a couple fairies yourself, I imagine you're open to it. You girls should hook up. You'd be a cute couple. Your tits are probably kind of small for her taste, but—"

"Leave her alone," Santana said, her voice wavering.

Lee glanced over at her. "Say what?"

This time Santana lifted her head and spoke clearly. "I said leave her the fuck alone, you shrimp-dick, piece of dog shit."

"Whoa. Looks like I touched a nerve," Lee said, and snickered into Rachel's ear, though he didn't sound amused. "Guess she likes your tits after all. Let's find out." He tugged on Santana's arm and mashed her palm against Rachel's breasts, pressing down hard as he rubbed it back and forth. Rachel squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, tiny slivers of pain embedding themselves in her chest. She stifled a groan of discomfort, but when Lee guided the hand under her blouse and across the cups of her bra, she screamed into her closed mouth. The bottled-up noise strained her throat, and she abruptly began to cough. Her stuffy nose and his unyielding grip made it difficult to breathe through her nostrils. She was running out of air.

"Stop it," Santana pleaded with him in a high, frantic pitch. She balled a fist and tried to yank it away from him. "Somebody help us!"

Lee silenced the shout with a savage twist of Santana's wrist. She gave a small cry and huddled over, letting her hand go limp in his. The second she did so, he resumed groping by proxy, working downwards from Rachel's abdomen. His fingers slackened around her mouth as he concentrated on her thighs, sliding his hostage palm along the insides of each. A bit light-headed, but able to form a coherent thought now that she wasn't suffocating, Rachel attempted to put her legs together. Lee drove her knees apart with one of his and shoved Santana's hand the rest of the way up her skirt. She inhaled deeply as he massaged the girl's fingers against the crotch of her underwear.

"Feel good?" he asked.

Rachel replied in muffled sobs.

"I don't think you do it for her, Lo." To Rachel, he added, "You want her to stop?"

She nodded.

"Tell her." Lee took his hand off Rachel's mouth.

"S-stop," she whispered. "Stop."

Santana remained hunched forward, staring at the piano keys as Lee continued to manipulate her fingers. She barely blinked.

"Maybe she didn't hear you," Lee said, watching Santana keenly. He grabbed Rachel's hand and thrust it under the flap of his jacket, patting it to a solid, narrow bulge beneath the inner lining. "Reach into my pocket there and show her what's inside, Rach. That'll get her attention."

"I don't—"

Lee covered her mouth again. "Do it."

Before her fingers even closed around the metallic tube, Rachel knew what it was. She had just seen pictures of it, and she'd wanted to plug her ears during Santana's description of how it had been used to violate her. Crying in earnest, Rachel slowly brought the flask into view, treating it with as much caution as a loaded gun. Liquid sloshed inside the container, and the spotless silver on the outside glinted like new. The only blemish was a dark red stain in the grooves of Russell Fabray's name.

"Put it in her hand," Lee said, and removed the hand from between Rachel's legs, turning it palm up.

Suddenly, Santana began to fight as if her life depended on it. Jerking herself upright, she put her whole body into wrenching away from Lee, and staggered backwards when she broke free. The sling prevented her from putting an arm out for balance, and she dropped roughly onto her bottom. Lee lunged for her, but she scooted underneath the piano, beyond his reach. As he stood, scooping Rachel up with him, she hurled the flask across the room. It crashed into the wall, clanked against the floor and rolled beneath the front row of chairs where the girls had been eating lunch. He looked in both directions, unable to decide which one he wanted more—Santana or the flask. Finally he went after the latter. Crouching by the chair it had settled below, he lowered Rachel on all fours to the ground, his hands around her waist. "Pick it up," he snarled.

"No."

"Don't tell me no, you little kike. Pick up the fucking—"

Before he could finish, the school bell rang, announcing the end of lunch period. In seconds, the halls would be overflowing with students and teachers, any one of whom might glance into the room as they happened by. Lee growled in aggravation and shoved Rachel aside, knocking her against the legs of two other chairs. They screeched apart, refusing to support her weight, and she landed gracelessly on her hip between them. Snatching the flask off the ground, Lee rose to his full height and gazed down coldly at her. "Saved by the bell," he muttered, slipping the cylinder back inside his jacket. He turned and headed for the exit. "Don't forget our agreement, ladies."

As he stepped out of the room, he added, "Enjoy your slumber party." The door clicked shut behind him.

A chill passed through Rachel as she wondered just how long Lee had been lurking in the hall, eavesdropping, stalking his prey. She stayed motionless, propped on elbow and hip, half afraid he would come pouncing out of nowhere if she moved. But the room had fallen eerily still, and after a moment she glanced around in search of Santana. Seated under the piano, the girl was curled into a tight black ball, knees drawn to her chest, face buried against them. With her dark clothes and the white sling, it looked like she had camouflaged herself in the same colors as the baby grand—a bit more effort and she could disappear altogether.

Rachel wiped her cheeks and nose on her sleeve and took a shaky breath. She didn't trust her unsteady legs enough to stand; crawling on hands and knees towards the piano, she eased in next to Santana. When she placed her palm on Santana's back, the girl pulled away and scrunched up even smaller. "It's just me," Rachel said in a faint voice, sniffling. Her hand drifted down into her lap, resting on top of the phone she'd forgotten she was holding. Quickly she put the gadget aside, not wanting to see it anymore. Ever. "Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" Santana mumbled.

On the verge of tears again, Rachel bit her bottom lip and shook her head. What a foolish question. Of course Santana wasn't okay, because neither was Rachel. Since the first day of kindergarten, she had endured years of harsh bullying—both verbal and physical—but none of it compared to the fear and humiliation Lee had just put her through in less than two or three minutes. And that was only a fraction of what he'd done to Santana. No wonder she was huddled up like a 1950's schoolchild during a bomb drill.

"Did he hurt you?" Rachel asked, studying the arm wrapped around Santana's knees. It didn't appear injured, but she knew it had to be sore after such mistreatment.

"Kind of." Santana turned her face gradually into view, one brown eye peeking out at Rachel. "You?"

"A little." The stitch in Rachel's side had faded to a dull ache, and she could tell her hip was gearing up for a bruise. Wounded deepest of all, though, were her heart and her pride. Taunts about her looks or personality were always hurtful, but nothing cut to the bone quite like insults directed at her fathers. That was one injustice she would not tolerate. "We need to go tell the principal what happened—"

"No," Santana said flatly.

"At least come with me so you're not alone in here. You don't have to explain anything, I'll do all the talking."

"No, you won't." Santana raised her head and narrowed her eyes, both mannerisms vaguely feline, as were the majority of expressions she used when at her most intimidating. "We are not telling anybody about this, Rachel."

Incredulous, Rachel stared and blinked several times. "What? We can't just let him get away with that. He assaulted us, Santana. He threatened us. Threatened our families."

"And what do you think he'll do if we go running to Principal Figgins? That will piss him off even more. There's not always a bell to rescue you at the last minute, you know." Santana's voice broke and the hardness in her features began to crumble. She covered them with her hand.

"Then, let's call the police ourselves. Maybe they'll arrest him again and—"

"And let him go again. The police don't do jack shit. I told them he raped me, and he's still walking around this school like he owns it." Santana made a defeated gesture and let her hand drop onto her knee, resting her forehead against it. "Fucking Top Gun," she sighed.

Although Rachel knew fear, fatigue and depression were clouding the girl's judgment, she decided it best not to say so out loud. Instead, she reached over tentatively and patted Santana between the shoulder blades. Santana stiffened at first, but as Rachel's palm made wider and wider circles across her back, some of the tension gave way. Gazing up, she rolled her head to the side, as if lifting it took too much effort. "I'm sorry you got involved in my mess. I really am," she said in the sincerest tone Rachel had ever received from her. "But please don't make me go through this twice. Sue didn't leave me any choice who I told, and now everyone knows the disgusting crap those jerk-offs did to me. Most of them probably think I deserved it. Hell, maybe I did."

"You did _not_ deserve it." Rachel inched closer, until they were hip to hip, and put her arm around Santana. "Don't even think that, okay? There's nothing you could do that would give someone the right to hurt you like that."

"Thanks, but not everyone is as nice and forgiving as you. They're eating all of this up. And laughing at me because I'm a lesbian. Imagine what it'll be like if they find out what I just did to you."

"What he made you do," Rachel stressed.

"That won't make a difference," Santana said, suddenly vehement. "You know the kind of stuff they'll say. We're already the laughingstocks of this school. You really want it to get around that 'Santana Lopez molested Rachel Berry in the choir room'? We'll never live it down. It might not matter to you since you're going off to New York to become famous, but I'm going to be stuck in this shithole town with these people for the rest of my goddamn life."

The thought of anyone turning Lee's harassment into a joke sickened Rachel, but she had been teased enough to know that nothing—no matter how personal or tragic—was safe from ridicule at McKinley High. Admitting to an adult that she'd been touched more intimately by Santana than she had by her own boyfriend would be embarrassing. If word spread to her classmates, it would be downright mortifying. She didn't want to subject herself to that. How could she possibly subject Santana to it? The girl already sounded so bleak, so hopeless.

"They know too many of my secrets as it is. I can't handle any more," Santana whispered, her breath hitching. "I just want it to be over. I want _everything _to be over."

Then, as if something had shattered within, Santana's back gave a deep spasm and she let out a devastated sob. Large tears slid from the corners of her eyes and dripped onto her leggings in inklike streaks. She leaned into Rachel, slumping down a little at a time. Finally she curled on her side, allowing her head to be guided into the lap below. Rachel swiped at her own tears so they didn't fall into Santana's hair while she stroked it. As she murmured noises of comfort and listened to the girl's heartrending cries, she knew what she had to do. When Santana had exhausted herself and lay shivering and taking convulsive gasps of air, Rachel said, "I won't tell anybody what happened."

Santana was quiet for a long time, the rise and fall of her chest slowly becoming steadier. "Not even Finn? Or your dads?" she asked with the slightest quiver.

Rachel's conscience put up a valiant struggle, but in the end it was her desire to help a friend in need that won out. "Not even Finn or my dads."

Turning her head, Santana gazed up imploringly. She raised her hand and crooked the pinkie. "You promise?"

Not once in seventeen years had Rachel been invited to prove her loyalty with a pinkie swear. It was childish perhaps, but she'd always yearned for the type of friend who would trust her based on such a silly, simple gesture. No one believed she could keep a secret; no one had ever bothered to put that much faith in her. With a hint of reverence, she hooked her pinkie around Santana's.

"I promise."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Holy shit, you guys. Way to make me look like a jackass for feeling bad about a lack of reviews. I do have to point out that I went from getting 5 for one chapter to about 35 for the next, so at first my whining wasn't completely unfounded, lol. Seriously, though, thank you for all the comments and encouragement. Obviously it helped, since here I am, updating again. I got smacked upside the head by an uber case of writer's block there for a while, but I pulled through and it reminded me how much I look forward to posting these chapters each time. So I'm gonna try to tough it out. I can't guarantee there won't be more whining later on down the road, but I'll try to keep it to a minimum.

For those who are wondering about the endgame ship: I never intended for any certain romantic pairing to become the focus of the story. The plot's not really conducive to romance, and it's supposed to be about Santana's journey more than anything. That being said, I have noticed some major Quinntana chemistry when I'm writing them, so we'll see where that goes. (Trust me, I have plans. Keep reading. :) And to answer a few more specific questions/comments: **VickyP**: Which guys do you mean? The glee guys? They might pop up from time to time, but I don't think I'll use them much. I don't really like too many of them, lol. **rosieweasely**: This story is AU, so the Troubletones never existed. And I don't see much of a friendship between Mercedes and Santana on the show. Mercedes used Santana to get ahead with the Troubletones, that was about it. Even if they were friends, I'd write her the same way because she's not very loyal. She was supposedly friends with Rachel too, but she was ready to throw Rachel under the bus the minute Shane told her to. That's just how I see her though. I've never liked her, so don't mind me.

Okay, this A/N is about to become longer than the chapter, so I'll stop. Hope you like the chapter. Please let me know what you think.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVEN<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>Now, boys, I swear if you give me any grief over the next sixty minutes, I swear to God I'll kill you. Dead, murdered, stabbed."<em>

"_Raped?"_

Three heads turned towards Santana—one brunette, one blond, one bright pink—as the girls sprawled about the room cast an anxious look in her direction. She shoveled another handful of kettle corn into her mouth and kept her eyes on the flat screen where Elisabeth Shue was squinting with annoyance at a pubescent, ginger-haired Anthony Rapp. Prior to this one, several movies had been vetoed because Rachel deemed the content too intense for slumber party viewing: including _Zombieland_ (Quinn's choice), _Dirty Dancing _(Brittany's) and _Girl, Interrupted _(Santana's). But it seemed even her light and fluffy choice of _Adventures in Babysitting_, which she had spent fifteen minutes perusing her fathers' extensive Blu-ray collection before deciding upon, wasn't completely safe. The other girls were irked by the censorship, but it didn't much bother Santana. She had little interest in movies at the moment. And after what she'd gone through with Rachel on the previous day, she couldn't bring herself to bitch at the girl for being overprotective.

In a weird, twisted sort of way, they had bonded by surviving the confrontation with Lee together. It was a bond forged in guilt, secrets and shame; nevertheless, Rachel now understood Santana in ways their other friends couldn't. She had gotten a glimpse of the devil, felt the scorch of his breath and his hands. Santana was grateful that Quinn and Brittany had stood up for her, but it was their choice to do so. Rachel had literally been dragged into it, and she still defended Santana, even when presented with evidence that she shouldn't. She didn't make a big deal out of it as they sat side by side underneath the piano, clearing the dirty pictures off her cell phone. And without needing to be asked, she made certain Jacob's video truly had been deleted. On top of it all, she skipped the remainder of her classes and took Santana to The Lima Bean for a cappuccino. They spent the next few hours tucked away in a corner, their legs drawn up in a couple of overstuffed armchairs, murmuring and crying with each other between sips. For some reason, the tears Santana had kept locked up for more than a week were only able to surface when she was with Rachel. Her Jiminy Cricket.

She glanced over to find Rachel watching her from the giant beanbag chair that threatened to swallow its petite occupant whole. Clad in pink flannel Hello Kitty pajamas, hair in pigtail braids, the girl looked about six years old. But she wore an almost maternal expression as she tilted her head and soundlessly mouthed, "You okay?"

Santana realized she was frowning in thought as she moved her hand from bowl to face, mindlessly munching on the snack she didn't even like. She preferred regular popcorn to this sweet and salty vegan crap that Rachel swore up and down was delicious. But the girl had been eager for Santana to try it, and the repetitive lift-chew-swallow action kept her busy, preventing moments such as these when she got caught brooding. She softened her lips into a faint smile and nodded. (_Liar._) She mouthed back, "You?"

Since the choir room incident, Rachel hadn't been her usual chipper self. Though she put on a cheerful front for her guests, every once in a while she slipped into a pensive silence that raised Quinn and Brittany's eyebrows and made Santana flush with embarrassment. Yesterday, Rachel claimed to be fine, but how could she be after the things Lee had said and done? A deep and ugly shame gnawed at Santana's insides every time she remembered him shoving her hand under the girl's clothes. Just like Karofsky had done to her on the cold, wet ground outside the football field. And how many times in the past had she teased Rachel for being a virgin? Just like Santana had been teased by the boys for being a slut. She was no better than them, if you really thought about it. In fact, she was worse because she wanted Rachel to pretend the attack never happened. At least Santana had been given the chance to talk about her rape and seek justice. But she'd fucked that up too, hadn't she?

Lost in self-hatred, it took her a second to notice Rachel smiling and nodding in return. The girl tapped her finger to a decapitated Hello Kitty head on her sleeve, mutely asking, "Your arm?"

Santana looked down at what was supposed to be her good arm and gave a noncommittal shrug. Having it wrung like a dishtowel sure didn't do it any favors, but it wasn't nearly as sore and stiff as the other one. At a follow-up exam with Dr. McNamara that afternoon, the physician had recommended she start gentle exercises to improve range of motion and prepare her for physical therapy in another two weeks. In her eagerness to be rid of the sling as soon as possible, she had overexerted herself and needed a dose of painkillers to tolerate the acute ache that ran from shoulder to fingertips. Now that the pills had mostly worn off, her arm throbbed in time with the beat of her heart. She wished she'd taken a couple more Vicodin before the movie started.

Pointing to her side, she mimed an inquiry about Rachel's ribs, which the girl had been treating tenderly since having Lee's elbow jabbed into them. Rachel made a so-so gesture with her hand, then quickly stuck it into her popcorn bowl, gaze traveling past Santana to the blonde who sat next to her on the couch. Santana turned to see Brittany observing the silent conversation, brow creased, blue eyes full of curiosity. After a brief smile, Santana feigned interest in the hapless babysitter and trio of brats again. As she tried to concentrate on what the kid in the Thor helmet was saying, Brittany's hand crept over and grasped hers on the couch cushion. She managed not to pull back right away, but when she could no longer stand the feeling of being trapped, she eased her hand free under the guise of reaching for some kettle corn. She gripped the rim of the bowl after digging into it, carefully avoiding the cushion from then on.

The tire had just blown out on the babysitter's station wagon when Rachel's fathers appeared in the living room archway. Marcus and Simon—they insisted the girls call them by their first names—waited politely for their daughter to pause the movie before crossing in front of the wall-length entertainment center. Both men were two of the most courteous and likable parents Santana had ever met. They didn't gripe that their home had been invaded by teenage girls who hogged all the Coke Zero in the fridge and hijacked the television; instead, they catered to the girls' every whim and made themselves scarce in the meantime. They really were the sweet guys Rachel had portrayed them to be. If Santana were going to ask anyone for advice about coming out, they would be her first choices. But the encounter with Lee had left her too shaken to confront anything else that frightened her, including the truth about her sexuality. Maybe someday she would discuss it with them—just not tonight.

"Well, girls, us old fogies are off to bed. You'll have to fend for yourselves," said Marcus, crunching on an ice chip from the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. A snappy dresser with a killer grin and chocolate complexion, he epitomized the term "dashing." He drained the last of his scotch and strolled over to dot a kiss to Rachel's forehead. "'Night, pumpkin."

"'Night, Daddy," Rachel said, and intercepted the empty glass from him. She placed it aside on the coffee table, a coaster underneath, then turned her face up to accept a kiss from Simon. Shorter and more soft-spoken than his partner, Simon didn't give off quite the same air of sophistication. But he had a quick wit and exuded paternal warmth. He called Rachel his princess as he leaned in for a hug.

"'Night, Dad."

Santana felt a tinge of envy as she watched the interaction between fathers and daughter. She hadn't been hugged or kissed goodnight by her father in over a week. Ever since she had pushed him away at the hospital, he seemed fearful of touching her. She used to be able to flop herself down in his lap, wrap both arms around his neck, and pepper his cheek with kisses until she got just what she wanted. Now she found it difficult to meet his eye. Their relationship was slowly disintegrating with each passing day.

When Rachel snuck her a questioning look, offering one last chance to chat with the men, Santana shook her head lightly and averted her gaze. It settled on Quinn, who lounged sideways in the leather recliner, head on one armrest, legs dangling over the other. She was scowling at the popcorn bowl balanced on her stomach, as if its uneaten contents had personally affronted her. After a moment, she glanced up at Santana and pretended to gag herself with her index finger.

"No all-night keggers once we're asleep," said Simon, pointing at each of the girls in mock sternness. He winked when he reached Santana. For most of the evening, he and Marcus had done a good job of treating her as normally as the others, but their small efforts to draw her out of her shell made it obvious they knew—Santana was the rape victim, the female minor whose identity the papers would not disclose. She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

She smiled indulgently.

"Goodnight, ladies." Simon waved to them as he headed upstairs.

Trailing behind, Marcus doffed an imaginary hat and echoed in a singsong voice, "Goodnight, ladies. Goodnight, ladies. We're going to leave you now..."

"Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little," Rachel chirped after him.

He disappeared onto the second floor, warbling, "Farewell, ladies..."

"What?" Rachel asked, when she noticed the bemused stares she was getting. "Haven't any of you seen _The Music Man_?"

"Huh-uh."

"No."

"I see Mr. Schue every day at school."

Rachel gaped at them for so long it looked like she had accidentally paused herself with the remote control. "Well, if I'd known that, I never would have chosen _Adventures in Babysitting_," she finally said, and started to waddle out of the beanbag. "Which version do we want? I have both. Shirley Jones or Kristin Chenoweth? Personally I prefer—"

"_Dios mío_," groaned Santana.

"Berry, if you get out of that chair..." Quinn warned.

Brittany threw a handful of kettle corn.

Sighing, Rachel flumped into her seat and aimed the remote at the Blu-ray player. "Fine." She gave a tiny, offended sniff as the station wagon resumed skidding across the TV screen. "But you don't know what you're missing," she said in a stage whisper.

An hour and a half later, she was sound asleep in the beanbag, cuddling her popcorn bowl like a teddy bear. Her head had dropped backwards against the lumpy cushion, and her open mouth emitted noises that should have belonged to a much larger, much more masculine individual. But they were nothing compared to the lumberjack snores coming from the blonde on the couch.

Brittany had slumped onto the decorative pillows that lined the armrest, long hair cascading across her face. For someone so graceful, she was ungainly in slumber, her limbs jutting in all directions. Santana studied her for a while as the movie credits rolled. Her eyes wandered over Brittany's pajamas, a pair of cute, girlish long johns that were designed to accentuate curves rather than warmth. The top few buttons were undone, revealing a gentle slope of downy flesh. Santana concentrated on the spot, waiting to feel the pleasant stir in her belly that had always accompanied glimpses of the dancer's toned body. It didn't come. Instead, she began to feel sick at the thought of Lee scanning the images on Rachel's phone. The pictures of Santana didn't matter—he already knew every inch of her, and yesterday proved she was still his property—but she had given him access to Brittany as well. And he had the pictures saved somewhere, to leer at whenever he desired. Just as she was leering now, wishing she could touch and fearing she would never be able to. Lee didn't have those same reservations. What if he got dissatisfied only looking?

Anxiety ripped through Santana like a shredder, cutting a swath straight to her heart. It became painful and difficult to breathe, as if she'd had the wind knocked out of her; as if there were something tight around her neck. She was on the verge of total panic when Quinn sat up and yawned loudly, jolting her from the toxic daydreams that were more and more becoming her reality. The girls blinked at each other—Quinn sleepily, Santana dazedly—from their respective seats.

"Holy crap," Quinn said, rubbing her fist in both eyes. She glanced back and forth at Rachel and Brittany as they continued their log-sawing contest. "How long have they been like that?"

Santana leaned forward and put her bowl on the coffee table, then rescued Brittany's from the elbow that was about to nudge it off the couch. When she could speak without her voice betraying her, she gestured at the TV and said, "Since around 'Don't fuck with the babysitter.'"

Quinn gave a wide, lazy stretch and another massive yawn. Then she touched her tongue experimentally to the crescent-shaped scar on her upper lip, checking that the stitches were undisturbed. "This sleepover officially blows," she declared.

"Yeah. Guess nobody was really in the mood for it."

They were silent for a moment, watching as the copyright information and studio logos vanished from the screen. "You wanna start another movie?" Quinn asked in a dubious tone, eyeing the noisy pair on either side of Santana. "It doesn't have to be about children or puppies or rainbows."

"Nah." Santana gazed around at the bowls and empty soda cans that littered every flat surface in the room. "I think I'll just clean up the mess and go to bed." She lugged herself off the couch, gathered the pieces of kettle corn Brittany had tossed earlier, and sprinkled them into the bowl of kernels she pried out of Rachel's hands. The girl mumbled something about Balzac and snuggled deeper into the beanbag.

"You should leave it," Quinn said. But she got to her feet and began stacking bowls inside of her own. She collected cans as she went, depositing them on top of the heap. By the time she joined Santana, she looked like a character in a Dr. Seuss storybook, expertly balancing a teetering skyscraper of household items—the only thing missing was a fishbowl. She took the empty bowl from Santana and added it to the bottom of the pile. "Princess Pumpkin will probably be up cleaning at, like, the crack of dawn anyhow."

They stood above Rachel, observing her in a way neither of them would have dared while she was awake. She resembled a child even more in sleep, her bold, expressive features softened by innocent dreams. One chestnut-colored braid was twisted behind her head, the wispier hair underneath pulled taut at the scalp. Santana reached down and gently eased the braid free, smoothing it against Rachel's shoulder. Her hand rested on the girl's arm, only lingering for a second. It was a second too long.

"Not to be nosy, but... what's the deal with you guys?" Quinn asked lightly.

Santana straightened to her full height and picked up the tumbler on the coffee table. It still carried the pungent, earthy aroma of scotch, and she made a face as she sniffed at it. "What do you mean?" she said, trying to sound casual.

"I don't know, it seemed like you two were almost getting along tonight. It's weird." Quinn shrugged and followed alongside Santana as they wandered towards the kitchen. "Not _weird _weird, just... weird. I mean, we are having a sleepover at Rachel Berry's house. We're breaking practically every commandment in the Unholy Trinity bible."

"We have a bible?"

"Well, I suppose it's really more of a religious tract..."

"So, basically we're Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

Their soft chuckles faded when Santana stopped short outside the dark kitchen, her feet refusing to go any further. Quinn shifted her armload into the crook of one elbow and patted the wall until she found the light switch. Once the room had brightened, she proceeded to the granite-topped island and set her burden down, then began searching the cabinets for a trashcan. Blushing, Santana went to the sink, rinsed the tumbler and placed it upside down in the basin. "Rachel's not so bad," she said quietly. When her cheeks had cooled, she opened the cabinet door underneath the sink, revealing the trashcan inside, and tapped Quinn on the back. "Don't get me wrong, she's a total freak. But I'm getting sort of used to those."

"Ha ha."

After dumping the leftover kettle corn and recycling the soda cans, they returned to the living room and stood side by side, casting uncertain looks at the other two girls. Rachel was spread out like a starfish in her puffy chair; Brittany had discovered she had the couch to herself and somehow flipped onto her stomach in the middle of it. She was hugging the pillow beneath her head, a serene smile on her petal-pink lips.

"I guess we should let 'em sleep?" Quinn said.

"Yeah..."

"You want Rachel's bed? I can sleep down here in the recliner." Quinn glanced at the staircase, which was dimly lit by a glow from the upstairs hall. "Oh. Unless you'd rather—"

"No. It's fine," Santana said hurriedly. The thought of walking through an unfamiliar house by herself at night filled her with dread. Over the course of a week she had developed a fear of the dark that surpassed any she'd experienced in childhood, when monsters under the bed and ghosts in white sheets were the worst her imagination could conjure up. But she would be damned if she was going to act like a baby in front of Quinn for the second time that evening. Besides, as much as she hated to be alone these days, she also craved it. She had spent the past several hours pretending to be all right for her friends—it was exhausting. "I'll take the bed."

"Are you sure?"

Santana nodded, already moving towards the stairs. "Mm-hmm. G'night."

"'Night..."

xxx

The rat should have been the first clue that it was a dream. Brittany cradled the Tubbington-sized rodent in her arms, fussing and fawning over it much like she did with her obese cat. At first, the thing appeared to be sleeping, eyelids closed into slits on either side of its conical face. Its drab fur was caked in dirt and seemed to squirm and twitch of its own accord. Upon closer examination, Santana realized the bristly hair looked alive because it was infested with bugs—fleas, maggots, earthworms, spiders—that slithered and burrowed in and out of the animal's mangy body as if it were part of the soil. A stench of carrion permeated the choir room, making Santana weak with nausea; but there was no reaction from the glee clubbers in the chairs around her. Their benign smiles were fixed on Mr. Schuester, who invited Santana to the front of the room for a solo. When she ignored him and tried to warn Brittany about the disgusting dead creature in her arms, he began hurling insults at Santana in Spanish. His neck veins bulged, and he was almost purple with rage. The ghastly grin never left his face.

Finally, he stopped bellowing as Santana rushed to obey him. Nearing the front row where her best friend sat holding the thing, she could hear that it breathed. Deep rattling sounds—part purr, part growl—came from the bloated, decaying body as Brittany went on stroking the head and murmuring to it. Suddenly, as Santana took her place next to the piano, the slits in the rat's face opened and stared at her. Its beady red eyes looked like blood blisters. They followed her slightest movement. When she shrank back in revulsion, the animal crept into Brittany's lap, crouching menacingly, its hackles up. Mr. Schuester was still demanding that Santana sing for the group, but the moment her lips parted, the rat rose onto its haunches and opened its mouth too. Jagged, razor-sharp teeth dripped with saliva inside the cavernous gap. It let out a shrieking hiss, a mist of spittle spraying the air, then launched itself at Santana.

She reeled backwards against the piano, tried to clamber on top of it. The lid sprang open and a pair of bone-crushingly strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her headfirst into the bowels of the baby grand. Before she could even scream, the coffinlike interior swallowed her up and shat her out on the cold, dank earth beneath the McKinley High bleachers. Lee stood over her, sipping a scotch on the rocks. His eyes were two pinpricks of blood just like the rat's, and he sneered in disgust as they roamed the length of her. She gazed down and saw why—now she was the rotting corpse, her flesh crawling with vermin. She could feel them wriggling inside of her, feasting on the mush that had once been bone and tissue. Her tongue was gone, and insects were the only thing to pour from her lips when she tried to scream again. They had consumed her entire throat, silencing her for good.

"She's all yours," Lee said to someone, _something_, that paced restlessly in the shadows. Santana was afraid to look at it. The bugs had already gotten to her eyeballs anyway. But she could somehow still see, and when she searched the darkness under the tiers, three more sets of eyes peered back at her. A bright, demonic shade of red, they were the one visible feature of whatever gruesome monster Lee had called forth. As it slunk towards her, wheezing and pawing at the dirt, it separated into three human-shaped silhouettes. Santana didn't need to see the faces to recognize them. The outlines of Karofsky, Azimio and Jacob as they emerged from the dark would forever be etched in her mind. This time, however, Lee retreated into the night, remarking as he went: "I'm starting to prefer blondes."

Santana reached out her hand to stop him, but her decomposed flesh sloughed off in chunks that hit the ground with a sickening splat. Eagerly, hungrily, the black figures swarmed forward at the sound. When they came into view, they had transformed from humans into rats like the one Brittany had been holding in the choir room. Their ruby eyes gleamed as they closed in on Santana, mouths gaping and teeth gnashing.

She woke from the nightmare sitting bolt upright in bed, her legs thrashing under the covers, just as the first pair of fangs sank in. Her back slammed against the headboard when she kicked the sheet and blanket off, beating them with her fist until she was certain nothing remained below. Drenched in sweat and panting heavily, she glanced at the strange canopy bed and its surroundings as if she were a castaway who had washed up on a foreign shore. Only after several moments of staring at the posters that lined the marigold-colored walls did she remember her whereabouts: Rachel's bedroom. Exuberant titles of Broadway shows—_Oliver! Oklahoma! Mamma Mia!_—shouted at her with the same creepy, manic cheerfulness Mr. Schuester had in the dream. Once again, Elphaba and Glinda were trading secrets and wicked little smiles. The longer she looked at the witches, the more convinced she became they were watching her, mocking her. She dropped her gaze to the floor, immediately recoiling at the sight of a furry body poised to leap at her from the carpet. When there was no movement, no attack, she peeked over the side of the mattress and into the doleful black button eyes of Howard the teddy bear. She hadn't slept with a stuffed animal since third grade, but the gift from Becky had become a source of comfort in recent days. Santana had smuggled it into the slumber party with no intentions of removing it from her duffel bag. Then, finding herself alone in a room that looked like the inside of a kaleidoscope and smelled like a Cabbage Patch doll, she'd decided introducing one more cute bit of fluff to the mix couldn't do any harm. Now she snatched the bear up and hugged it tightly to her chest, waiting for the anxiety to pass.

It was a long wait. Mellow light filtered in deceptively from the adjoining bathroom, left wide open and illuminated after she'd brushed her teeth earlier. She checked the clock on the nightstand, hoping it was almost time for her friends to stir. _Shit_. _3:04AM_. Even if Quinn's prediction were true and Rachel did arise promptly at dawn, that still gave Santana a few hours with just Howard as company. She considered taking the other half of the Valium she had swallowed before bed. Her vow not to touch the pills again had already been broken several times over, mainly out of necessity. Without them relaxing her nerves, she wouldn't have slept at all in more than a week. Splitting them lessened the side effects and helped her get some rest. But it obviously didn't cure bad dreams. Not wanting to chance another, she pushed thoughts of the drug aside and got out of bed.

She had no idea where she was going. All she knew was that if she stayed in this Crayola box bedroom any longer, clutching a teddy bear while hungry orphans, phantoms and witches gazed down in judgment from the walls, she would lose her goddamn mind. Discarding Howard on the rumpled sheets, she crept to the door and eased it open cautiously. To her relief, the lamp Rachel's fathers had left on still burned at the end of the hall. Thick carpeting absorbed her footsteps as she hurried to the staircase. She padded down at full tilt, spurred on by the sensation that something (_someone_) followed close behind. At the bottom she hesitated to enter the darkened living room, but the force that had chased her was now in the lead, luring her forward. She felt it tugging like an invisible tether at her waist. With only the electronic glow from the entertainment center to guide her, she tiptoed by her friends, barely glancing their way. They were dead to the world, their deep and steady breathing almost in sync; Quinn had cocooned into her baggy sweatshirt, knees tucked up inside of it, the hood drawn so tightly around her face that only a delicate, pierced nose poked out. Santana glided along in a haze, convinced if any of them did wake up to see her drift past, they would probably think she was a dream. For one terrifying moment she herself couldn't tell if she were real or a figment of their imaginations. Maybe she actually had died under the bleachers and everything since was just her lost soul attempting to find peace. What happened if it did? Would she disappear forever?

She blinked in surprise as a bright light flickered on, temporarily blinding her. Even when her pupils adjusted, she continued to squint with confusion at the washer and dryer, the stage and its beaded backdrop, the wall partitions that looked like giant slices of honeycomb. She hadn't seen this place in nearly a year, and back then she'd been too busy sucking face with Sam Evans and drunkenly bawling her eyes out to take notice of décor. It occurred to her in some vague corner of her mind that she was in the Berrys' basement, that she had walked through the dining room, kitchen and stairwell in complete darkness to get here. Before she could contemplate why, she was standing behind the wet bar, gazing through the glass panels of its built-in liquor cabinet.

_Oh_, she thought. Then: _I got it from here._

Her hand reached for the brass knob on its own, nothing, no one, compelling it from the outside. She gave the knob an eager twist, pulling hard when it didn't budge, then tried the same on the other side. After a few more failed attempts, she noticed the keyhole in the hardwood frame and remembered that Puck had jimmied the cabinet doors open last time.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered, and thumped her fist petulantly against the glass. She wondered why the hell Rachel's fathers had bought a liquor cabinet with a lock on it in the first place. Other than to keep people like her and Puck out, of course. Did they suspect their strait-laced daughter of boozing it up the minute their backs were turned? And the cabinet wasn't new—it showed at least a few years' worth of wear. Had little twelve-year-old Rachel Berry been a closeted alcoholic? Santana giggled at the thought, letting her imagination build on it as she searched the counter for something to pry the doors apart with. She pictured the pint-sized seventh-grader whom she had teased mercilessly for still wearing Gymboree; for not needing a training bra; for not having a mother to help pick one out. She pictured that loud, overdramatic little girl running home from school every day to cry and drink and pass out cold in her giant beanbag chair.

More laughter bubbled up inside of Santana, but she had a feeling it would turn to sobs if released. On her left, at the end of the bar, stood three replicas of the Oscar statuette, the gold plates on their bases each embossed with a name—Simon, Marcus, Rachel. She grabbed Rachel's, glad to discover it had some heft, and cocked her arm back, the golden knight clutched upside down in her fist. She was a muscle jerk away from smashing in the glass doors of the cabinet when a baffled voice asked:

"What the hell are you doing?"

Santana gasped and dropped the statuette to her side, arm swaying with the weight of it. Quinn stood at the foot of the stairs, squinting owlishly, her hair even more untamed than usual. It sprouted like a wildflower from the black hood bunched at her shoulders. Both cuffs of her skull-patterned pajama bottoms had unrolled and pooled on the floor, concealing her feet. A wildflower growing in a graveyard, maybe.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Santana said irritably. Easier to act pissed off than embarrassed.

Quinn's eyebrow quirked as she shuffled closer, crossing her arms the way she used to while lording it over her fellow Cheerios. "Uhh, it looks like you're trying to break into Rachel's dads' liquor cabinet with an Academy Award."

"Wow, and everyone thinks you Skanks are just a bunch of half-baked flunkouts. Who knew you could be so darn astute."

"What's wrong?" Quinn hung back a few steps, as if anything nearer might result in blunt force trauma.

Sighing, Santana placed the statuette on the floor and showed Quinn her empty palm. Her wrist had started to twinge anyway. "Bad dream. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided to come down here and take the edge off. Care to join? Add a little B&E to your budding criminal record?"

"It's late. I'm tired. Why don't we just hang out and talk or something?" Quinn tipped her head towards the sitting area and its feng shui arrangement of sofa and armchairs. "I'll stay up with you until you're ready to go back to bed."

"Great. But I guarantee you I'll be a much better conversationalist over drinks. And I'll be sleeping like a baby in no time."

Quinn unfolded an arm from across her chest and nibbled at the edge of excess sleeve that covered her entire hand. "Santana..." she said in a reluctant drawl, muffling her voice behind the fabric. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to be drinking. You already seem a bit... off."

A warm rush flooded Santana's cheeks, and she bent down to seize the Oscar, oblivious to how heavy it was this time. "And I suppose you're the poster child for people who have their shit together?" she snapped, turning to the cabinet again. In the glass-paneled doors, she glimpsed a reflection that startled her. She didn't recognize the pale, hollow-eyed face, the black hair in disarray, until the girl it belonged to blinked in unison with her. The trophy began to slip from her hand, and she tore her gaze away from the pathetic creature in its glass cage, refusing to look back once she'd tightened her grip. She propped the base against her knee for a moment and spoke in a level tone: "Run along to bed, Lucy Q. I need a real rebel right now. If I wanted a conscience, I'd go wake up the cricket."

"Hm?" Quinn sucked on the wedge of sleeve she had been chewing, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Calm down, I was talking about Rachel. It's a long story." Raising the trophy base to her shoulder, Santana focused on the colorful bottles beyond the glass barrier and prepared to set them—and that dreary other-girl—free. "Which, unfortunately, I won't be telling to you, since you're being such a tight-ass."

"Oh, for God's sake. Give me that." With an exasperated huff, Quinn snatched the Oscar from Santana and placed it on the bar next to its kin. "You're going to hurt yourself and probably get both of our asses kicked out of Berry's house. And that, my friend, is rock bottom." She hiked up her sleeve, revealing the leather cord bracelet she wore at all times. It was an ugly accessory with different-sized safety pins dangling from it like charms. Until now it appeared to be nothing more than another sign of how thoroughly its owner had rejected everything pretty and soft. But as she stepped up to nudge Santana aside, Quinn unfastened one of the larger pins that held another in place and said, "Move."

"What are you doing?" Santana leaned over Quinn's shoulder, watching in fascination while the girl separated the two pins from each other and straightened out the less mangled one. The metal was flexible, as if it resumed a familiar shape, and the pointed tip had been filed flat. The second pin resembled a deformed "L," and she pinched the bent end once before deeming it satisfactory.

Quinn inserted both tools into the keyhole with the delicacy of a neurosurgeon and began wiggling them around. Her tongue poked out as she worked, absently stroking the stitches in her lip. "What's it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're trying to pick the lock on Rachel's dads' liquor cabinet with office supplies."

"How very astute of you."

Five minutes later, they were lounging next to each other on the basement sofa, passing a bottle of Absolut Mandrin back and forth between them. Santana had chosen the drink not for any strong preference towards vodka but because the cap was already unsealed, the liquid level ambiguous enough that a slight decrease would go unnoticed. As a bonus, the stuff really did smell like oranges, and when she got over the initial burn that smacked of rubbing alcohol, she could taste the mandarin flavoring. It reminded her of the Del Monte fruit cups her _abuela_ had reserved a special shelf for in the fridge years ago, knowing they were Santana's favorite snack. During days when she had needed babysitting, she'd been allowed to gorge herself on as many of the supposedly healthy treats as she wanted. Mostly she liked to guzzle down the syrup that preserved the fruit. Estella Lopez used to wonder why her daughter came home with stomach aches and no appetite after visits with _abuelita_.

Santana took a long pull at the bottle, tension already draining away, senses starting to get fuzzy. She felt a light swat on her thigh and heard Quinn caution, "Hey. Slow down. I'm not carrying your drunk ass up those stairs."

Reluctantly she finished her turn, shuddering as she swallowed too much and too fast. She exhaled a blast of air through her open mouth and thrust the bottle at Quinn, who held onto it for a while after taking a brief nip. The girl was seated sideways, legs folded beneath her, one arm draped along the back of the sofa. Santana's head rested against it when she leaned back and propped her feet on the adjacent coffee table. They slipped into pensive silence that Santana let drag out when Quinn absently began to play with her hair, fingers combing through the long, dark strands. Eventually she loosened Quinn's grip on the vodka and took a swig, faint chills running down her spine. She gave a few stifled coughs, returned the bottle and said, "I got to second base with Rachel yesterday."

Quinn spluttered mid-sip. "What?" she asked hoarsely.

"Don't worry, it wasn't consensual. For either of us." Santana dabbed her leopard print pajama sleeve to the dribble of moisture on the girl's chin. "We were eating lunch in the choir room while Sue held that stupid-ass protest in the cafeteria. Lee came in and shut the door. Threatened to break my other arm if Rachel screamed. Then proceeded to tell us all the ways he's going to fuck with us if we don't leave him and the guys alone. And just for the hell of it, he forced me to touch Rachel's boobs and pretty much finger her. Does that make me a sex offender, you think? God, I hope I don't have to register my address and get, like, a tacky green license plate or something."

She'd been speaking up at the ceiling, head still tilted backward. When no response came, she arced her gaze over at Quinn. The girl was staring in shock, a tragic expression on her face.

"The last part was a joke," Santana said in a loud whisper.

"It's not funny."

"Hm. Tough crowd." Santana rolled her eyes heavenward again. She gave an insistent tug on the Absolut bottle and swallowed an extra large gulp as payback for having it withheld. "Anyway. He had your dad's flask," she rasped, and slid her fist up and down the neck of the bottle suggestively. After a moment she couldn't stand the feel of it against her palm and grasped the wider part instead. "He tried to make Rachel put it in my hand, but she threw it. He called her a kike when she wouldn't pick it up. Then the bell rang, so he just walked on out. With a few parting threats, of course."

"Did you tell anybody about this? The police?"

"Hmm-mm." The reply made a hollow noise inside the bottle as Santana nursed it, and there was a soft sound of suction when Quinn pulled it from her lips. Santana cupped her palm under her trickling chin. "What the fuck?" she demanded, unintelligible around a mouthful of vodka.

"You've had enough." Quinn twisted the cap back onto the Absolut and set it on the floor.

"Aw, Quinnie. Why such a stick up your ass? Don't your parents gargle this stuff like mouthwash? I know your dad did because—"

"Shut up before you say something really stupid." Quinn gave a warning look, but it softened as she guided Santana's hand over to pat it dry on her sweatshirt. "Why the hell didn't you tell someone?"

"And I'm the stupid one? I just told _you_, nimrod."

"You know what I mean."

Santana jerked the hand free and dropped it in her lap. "Because it's humiliating, okay? Would you want people to know that happened to you?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing. I've already been humiliated enough to last me a lifetime. Shit, more like ten lifestime. Lifestimes? Whatever." Santana was vaguely aware her words were slurring together. She cleared her throat and turned with sluggish movements to face Quinn, mirroring the girl's posture, but still letting her head loll on the sofa. "I know I'm an idiot for not telling. What good'll it do, though? If they're gonna get away with what they did to me, a little manual stimulation"—she wiggled her fingers—"isn't gonna make a difference. All's it'll do is get me and Rachel teased even worse. I asked her to keep quiet, and she agreed. If she can do it, I'm assuming you can, too?"

After a lengthy hesitation, Quinn shrugged half-heartedly. "I guess..."

"That's my girl." Smiling fondly, Santana reached up and smoothed the tufts of pink hair that ran amok on top of her friend's head. "Knew I could count on you."

"Oh, sure, because I've been such a big help to you already." Quinn rested her cheek on the back of the sofa, putting herself at eye level with Santana. Their faces were a few inches apart, but the proximity didn't bother Santana as it had when she and Brittany were like this against the lockers days earlier. It was easier being close to Quinn, to touch her—and be touched by her—since she would never desire anything further.

Or maybe it was the vodka.

"So far my brilliant plan to even the score has gotten me suspended and made Lee come after you and Rachel," said Quinn. "All I've done is make things worse."

"Are you kidding? You were a total badass with that tray. You were like Fabray the Douchebag Slayer." Santana kept a straight face for a moment, then broke at the same time as Quinn. They laughed for much longer than the joke deserved, but their amusement faded quickly when she added, "And Lee didn't need a reason to come after me. This is all a game to him. He'll keep playing till he wins."

"When will he have won?"

"Hell if I know. But you've seen how he is on the field. This is no different."

Try as she might to hide behind the dark clothes, the crazy hair and the nose ring, Quinn couldn't disguise her pretty features; even at three in the morning, with drowsy lids and sleep crust in her eyes, she was gorgeous. But her beauty had a sharp edge, and it glinted now like a blade drawn from its sheath. "That guy is a fucking psychopath," she said grimly. "Someone should just do the world a favor and blow his brains out. Or at least shoot him in the balls."

Santana hummed soft agreement, her vision momentarily out of focus. "Know where I can find a gun?" she asked, smirking.

Quinn gave a derisive little snort. "Actually, I do. You didn't hear this from me, but you know Sheila? Her dad and brothers are into some shady stuff. Like, hard-core. She's always telling me if I ever want a 'piece' or if I ever need someone 'taken care of,' to let her know."

"Jesus. And I thought I was your scariest friend."

Gradually Quinn resumed a lazy smile, the steel gone out of her expression. She was back to just being beautiful again. "In a verbal battle you're a beast. But I'm sorry, if the zombie apocalypse comes, my white girl ass is hauling it over to Sheila's."

Santana rolled her eyes, but failed to restrain a giggle.

"You should consider joining the Skanks," Quinn said thoughtfully, and hurried on before the scoffing could begin: "No, I'm serious. You've got the right attitude. Might need to work on the appearance some." She tweaked at the collar of Santana's pajama top.

"Well, the nose ring and the permanent bed-head are kinda hot." Santana raked her fingers into Quinn's hair, ruffling it vigorously. "Not sure I could pull off this color though."

"Hell no, you can't. It's mine. Get your own."

Snickering, Santana continued to toy with the cupcake-pink strands, coiling them around her finger and grinning as they fell in tiny ringlets. "How 'bout, um... purple?"

"Purple?" Quinn wrinkled her nose.

"I don't mean, like, full-on Dame Edna or big gay dinosaur purple. Something subtle. Maybe a few violet streaks... here and here..." Pinching small sections of hair, Santana ran them lightly between her fingers from root to tip. She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling when Quinn shivered. Her gaze drifted down to the girl's mouth as it murmured:

"That would be pretty."

"Mm-hmm." Santana's hand glided lower and she traced her fingertip along the curve of Quinn's upper lip, barely grazing the stitches. "When do those come out?"

"Tomorrow."

"Still hurt?"

"Not much. The doctor said there might be a little scar, but he can fix it."

Santana kissed the pad of her thumb and dotted it to the tiny blemish. "Leave it. Scars are sexy. At least the ones you can see."

"Santana..."

"Can I just...?" Santana slid her hand to the nape of Quinn's neck, fingers nestling into the soft locks of hair above. Palm applying only the lightest pressure, she tilted her head to the opposite side and closed the gap between Quinn's lips and her own. It wasn't so much a kiss as it was the question mark to her unfinished sentence. She asked tentatively, afraid of the answer. Quinn hadn't immediately pulled away in disgust, which surprised Santana—and encouraged her. But when fingers clasped her wrist, she felt a cold surge of dread rather than the warmth she had hoped for. She tried to block it from her mind, ignoring the tightness in her throat and chest as she deepened the kiss. Her tongue skimmed across Quinn's just as the girl eased back, parting them. For a split-second, Santana could see—in perfect, nauseating detail—the thread of saliva that had connected her to Karofsky after he kissed her. She advanced again, wanting desperately to make it disappear.

Quinn laid a hand on Santana's shoulder and whispered, "Stop."

"Why?" Santana asked, on the verge of tears. She held onto the crook of Quinn's elbow, their faces still close enough that they could have rubbed noses. "You let Mack do it."

"That was different."

Santana leaned against the sofa and let the tears roll down her cheeks. They were the only outward sign that she was crying, and she made no effort to halt them. "Because she's not a dyke?"

"No. Because I don't care about her. It didn't mean anything to either of us, and I knew no one would get hurt." Quinn dried Santana's cheeks with the back of her fingers, then swept the remaining moisture away with her thumb. "And she wasn't recovering from a huge trauma."

"So, in other words I'm damaged goods." Santana hung her head, worst fears confirmed.

"No." Quinn nudged Santana's chin up and looked her square in the eye. "I did not say that. But it hasn't even been two weeks since you were raped. You need to give yourself more time to deal with what happened before you start worrying about sex and stuff. Honey, you're not even fully healed yet." She rested her palm against the sling for just a moment, then stroked Santana's other arm. "It took me a while to be ready for that kind of thing after I had Beth. I know it's not the same, and I got myself into that one, but still. You don't have to rush it."

"I don't know if I'll ever be able to..." Santana lifted her shoulder, dropped it. "I can barely be around Britt without having a freakin' panic attack. Sometimes I can't even stand the smell of her. Too many memories from that night. And I can't talk to her about it 'cause she doesn't get it. Thought with you it might be— I might be able to get—" She sighed, frustrated with her inability to articulate. The liquor had left her feeling dull, as if her head were stuffed with cotton. "It was stupid. Sorry."

"It wasn't stupid. Just not a good idea for right now." Quinn tucked a stray hair behind Santana's ear and gave her a shy smile. "To be honest, I'm kinda flattered you picked me."

"Yeah, right. I'm such a catch."

"Seriously. If I were going to be with a girl, you'd be my first choice."

In spite of herself, Santana returned the smile, one side of her mouth quirked upwards. "Sounds like the vodka's doing a number on you, too," she said sleepily.

"Mm. We should probably call it a night." Quinn retrieved the Absolut bottle from the floor and got to her feet, holding out her free hand. Santana took it and tried to stand, nearly pitching forward as the room began to spin around her. "Oh, shit," she groaned, plopping down heavily onto the sofa cushion. She blinked hard several times but couldn't get rid of the swirling, blurry vision.

"You okay?" Quinn asked.

"Dizzy."

"Shit. Um... hang on." Hurrying to the liquor cabinet, Quinn carefully slid the Absolut into its empty slot, closed the doors and tinkered with the lock. A moment later, she crossed back over to the sofa and crouched down in front of Santana. "Can you walk if I help you?"

"Guess we'll find out."

Quinn patted her shoulder and reached for Santana's hand. "Put your arm around me," she instructed, already guiding it into place. She hooked her own arm around Santana's waist, counted to three, stood up. She staggered sideways a step, then righted herself as best she could with the Santana's full weight draped against her. Their trek towards the stairs was slow and unsteady, Quinn doing most of the work.

"You gotta teach me that safety pin trick when I get this sling off," Santana said as they ascended the first few steps. "It can be part of my phys—... my syph—... my PT."

"Uh-huh," Quinn puffed.

"Where'd you learn to do that, anyway?"

"Sheila."

"Sheila's got mad skills."

Quinn lugged Santana upright by the waist when they reached the first landing. "Yeah, she's a regular renaissance woman. Too bad she's not here to cart your ass around."

By the time they made it to the top landing, Quinn was out of breath and Santana was even more off balance than she had been on the stairs. They blindly navigated the dark obstacle course of kitchen and dining room, both swearing under their breath as they bumped into every table ledge, chair and wall along the way. Somehow their friends managed to sleep through all the noise, but when they had almost cleared the living room, Rachel's head shot up. "Mmm, yum. I love soymilk on my Cheerios," she said distinctly, then went on mumbling as she face-planted into the beanbag.

It took twice as long to mount the stairs to the second floor, their suppressed laughter doubling them over until Quinn stumbled as much as Santana. When they finally dropped onto the edge of Rachel's bed, they both sank backwards against the mattress, gasping for air and drying their eyes.

"What the hell was she dreaming about?" Santana asked, every other word followed by a residual giggle.

"I don't know, but I'm scared to eat breakfast with her now."

"Nah, we're good. Brittany better watch it, though."

Once they recovered from another round of giggles and snorts, Quinn gave one of her roaring yawns. "Well," she said, sitting up and preparing to push off the mattress.

Santana caught the girl's sleeve, struggling to sit forward also. The bed no longer felt like a remote desert island but a dinghy tossed by a rolling sea. She leaned on Quinn for support and—in a hurry to speak before pride could surpass the alcohol and the vertigo—blurted out: "Will you sleep with me?"

Quinn hesitated, an apprehensive look on her face, again so close to Santana's.

"I don't mean sex. Just sleeping. Sometimes it's worse if I wake up alone."

"Yeah, scoot over. I'll stay," Quinn murmured. "But don't start snoring or talking about what you like on your, ahem, _cereal."_

Moments later they were settled beneath the covers, Howard nestled between them. Some of the dizziness had subsided when Santana relaxed onto the pillows, and soon she could feel the seductive pull of deep, dreamless sleep. As she allowed herself to be lured into the dark again, she reached for her bedmate's hand under the blanket. Quinn laced their fingers together, and Santana drifted into the most peaceful rest she'd had in what seemed like a lifetime.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Hey, everybody. Thanks so much for the chapter 7 reviews. I'm glad Quinntana was such a hit. I do love writing them together. My heart still belongs to Pezberry, but Quinntana gives me lots of feelings in this story. Lots. Anyway, about this chapter. I know they cast Gloria Estefan as Santana's mom on the show, but that is not how I envision Mrs. Lopez at all. Nothing against Gloria, just... no. Since around the beginning of season 2, I've lobbying (aka crazy fangirl posting on my Tumblr) for Catherine Zeta-Jones to get the role. I think she would be insanely perfect as Santana's mom: she's fierce, she's gorgeous, she's got the musical background, and she's Catherine Zeta-fucking-Jones. I know she's Welsh, but whatever, she played a Latina character in the Zorro movies and it worked. (Which reminds me, I picture Antonio Banderas as Dr. Lopez.) I would just really, really love to see her and Naya acting together. It would me amazing and intense and perfect. But since _Glee_ shattered my hopes and dreams yet again, please do me a favor and picture Catherine as Estella when you read this, because that's who I've based her on all along.

To address the comment about how I should portray Finn as a nice guy since that's how he pretends to be: That's what I've been doing. Saying I shouldn't have included him was more or less a joke on my part. I haven't liked Finn from day one, but that wouldn't keep me from using him if he was important to the story (and he's not, at least not the story I'm trying to tell). I don't like Brittany either, but I felt she was essential in this fic, so I included her. **inmem0riam:** I pulled inspiration from lots of different places, but the movie _I Spit on Your Grave_ and season 5 of _Dexter_ were big influences.

One more thing. I've had some debilitating writer's block for the past couple weeks. Not so much with this chapter or the next, but the one after. It's been a huge challenge and I'm still struggling. I'm not saying I'm giving up. I just wanted to warn you guys in case it slows things down. I'm trying not to let it, but it's kind of kicking my ass. Send me good vibes or something. And please review if you get the chance.

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><p><strong>CHAPTER EIGHT<strong>

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><p>Santana sat with her back pressed against the row of balusters. The ornamental swirls in the wrought iron had always reminded her of pine cones, and when she was still small enough that she could barely see over the handrail, she'd pretended the supports where branches of a wizened old tree in an enchanted forest. It hadn't been difficult to imagine, since the view between them overlooked the downstairs living room. Estella Lopez, an artist to her very soul, treated the inside of her home like a canvas, each room a piece in her exhibit. The theme of the living room was nature, evoked in gentle earth tones, verdant embellishments and a few whimsical flourishes such as the painting of water nymphs and the bowls of floating lilies. White twinkle lights were dispersed along the ceiling to give it a starry gleam. On the nights Santana had wanted to stay up past bedtime, she used to creep towards the staircase and peer through the rails while her parents watched TV in the sparkly glow. It really had been like looking out on a fairyland. Especially when she was invited down to snuggle between her mother and father on the couch for the occasional episode of <em>ER<em> or _The X-Files_. But not nearly as much when one of her parents came up to tote her back to bed.

Then, as she got older, she made a life-changing discovery: if she avoided the creaky areas and kept her body flat against the carpet, the staircase landing was a perfect hideout from which to spy on her parents as they wrapped Christmas presents. This realization came the year she had planned to sneak up on Santa and steal the gift bag right out from underneath his cherry red nose. Instead of peeking over the ledge at a jolly fat man, she saw her father muttering curses at the assembly instructions to a pink two-wheeler that lay scattered around him in pieces. She had been too excited about the bike to care that Santa wasn't real. She spent the entire night watching her father put it together, and she hadn't been surprised by a single gift on Christmas morning in the decade since.

But now all the magic and wonder associated with her favorite spot in the house had gone. The wrought iron bars might as well have belonged to a jail cell as to the banister she used to slide down when her mother wasn't looking. One of the pine cone shapes was digging into her spine, but she hardly noticed. In fact, she shifted against it, grinding the knot deeper into her flesh in hopes that she would feel something. For the past half hour she had been sitting here entirely numb as she listened to her parents arguing in the kitchen. It had become a familiar sound in recent weeks—their heated voices filtering upstairs when Santana was supposedly asleep in her room—although tonight was the worst she'd heard it in a while. Perhaps ever. And this time there was no doubt in her mind that she had caused it. Her name kept popping up in the discussion, at least when they weren't referring to her with that accusatory pronoun "_she_." But it wasn't only her name they blasted back and forth at each other like gunfire. They were just as upset over the one they had simply labeled "_he_." Santana didn't need to hear his name to know they meant Lee Bowman. Though he'd never been inside her house, today his presence had invaded it with the same destructive force her body had been subjected to three weeks ago.

He was getting away with it. Earlier that afternoon, the district attorney's office telephoned with the news that a deal had been struck during Lee's pretrial. The state would agree to lower his charges and eventually drop them altogether if he complied with a program that included psychological evaluation, fifty hours of community service, and speaking to other teens about issues like underage drinking. In six months, his record would be wiped clean. Gary Lopez had railed at the woman on the phone, only to be told "that's how these things work sometimes" and reminded that Lee was a minor. A minor who had cooperated fully with the investigation. Who had friends and witnesses to corroborate his story. Who wasn't a trashy little whore like Santana. The woman hadn't actually said that last part, but it was certainly implied, as it had been since the proceedings first began. And why shouldn't it be? Most of the allegations the boys made were true. She'd had a previous sexual relationship with Lee and two other boys on the football team (_three, if you count the one with Karofsky that couldn't be denied without showing what a big fat liar she was_); she had dated (_and who knows, probably screwed_) Matt Rutherford and Sam Evans, also football players; she was known around school for her temper, which manifested itself violently more often than not. They had even mentioned the time she threw up during the assembly performance of "Tik Tok," further proof that she consumed alcohol on school grounds.

What they lacked in truth, they made up for in support from the boys' club. They had several football players and track team members at their disposal, each willing to testify about the numerous sexual favors Santana performed on a regular basis—the kinkier the better.

And what did Santana have?

She had a list of enemies that far exceeded her list of friends. Jocks had girlfriends, many who despised her enough to stick by their boyfriends' lies or to make up their own. Even Mercedes wasn't speaking up in Santana's defense. And consider the friends that would: Finn, whom she had bedded just to claim his virginity; Puck, the juvie kid and her former fuck buddy; Quinn, the basket case she had stolen said fuck buddy from; Rachel, the gay-sympathizer whose boyfriend she'd deflowered; Artie, whose girlfriend she had tried to steal; Mike, Tina and Kurt, victims and acquaintances at best; and Brittany, the girl she had slept with off and on since sophomore year. She couldn't expect any of them to lie for her. She didn't want them to.

Lee had been right. Her case was over before it even began. With his father at the helm, working the system and calling in favors to influential friends, he was getting pardoned in less time than it took for her sling to come off. And with her version of events successfully refuted once, Azimio, Jacob and Karofsky had little to fear at their upcoming hearings. They were already being portrayed as martyrs who suffered cruel abuse at the hands of vengeful classmates.

Honestly it was a relief that there wouldn't be a long, messy trial. Santana didn't have the energy for it. The thought of reliving the rape for a room full of strangers, or getting eviscerated on the stand, made her want to crawl into a hole and die. But then, she felt that way about almost everything these days. Most likely due to the post-traumatic stress disorder and depression she had been diagnosed with by the psychiatrist her parents were forcing her to see. So, on top of it all, she was nuts. No more halfsies on Valium for this crazy bitch. She swallowed them whole now, gobbled them like M&M's. She began to crave another one as her father's distressed voice rose up from the kitchen.

"But she doesn't even seem to care that he's walking away scot-free. That they all might. I don't understand why she isn't fighting this harder. She's always been so strong-willed and defiant, but it's like she's just given up. I'm furious at those little bastards for hurting her. She should be, too. She needs to stand up for herself and stop acting like everything they're saying is true." His volume kept increasing and decreasing every few seconds, as if he was pacing from one side of the room to the other. Santana had to strain to hear him add, "Unless..."

"Unless what?" Estella asked sharply. "Don't tell me you actually believe any of that filth they've been spreading. My God! What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you were on her side."

"I am on her side, goddamit. But what am I supposed to think when I find out she's been having sex since she was fifteen years old? With boys and girls, apparently. And running around doing God knows what else behind our backs. _Quince años_, Estella. Remember how sweet she looked in that dress your mother made? Every father tells his daughter she looks like an angel at her _quinceañera_, but I really meant it."

Santana nodded to herself, remembering the moment vividly. He had whispered that in her ear as they were slow dancing to a corny power ballad from the eighties. When she had rolled her eyes, it was out of obligation rather than genuine embarrassment. She'd never felt more beautiful or cherished as she did right then, gliding around the floor in her Scarlett O'Hara-inspired crimson gown while he smiled at her with such pride.

_Sorry_,_ Dad_, she thought. _Guess the red dress should've given me away. _

"And that changes somehow because she's not an innocent little girl anymore?" Estella demanded. There was a loud slap as her hand came down on a table or countertop. "_Hipócrita_. You told me you lost your virginity when you were sixteen."

"That's different."

"How is that different?

"Because I didn't have parents who taught me any better. We've talked to her about this. I thought we could trust her to make the right decision, not to go around..."

_Go ahead, say it: fucking everything in sight_.

Gary growled in frustration. "We've been too lenient with her. We let her get away with anything she wanted, and look what's happened. I should have put my foot down sooner. I never liked her running off to school in those skimpy outfits. And you knew how I felt about the implants, but you went right ahead and scheduled the damn surgery anyway."

"Oh, so now it's my fault?"

"She didn't need the fucking things! She was perfect the way she was."

"You try telling that to a teenage girl. I've been one—I know." Estella began to falter, her fierce tone weakened by emotion as she continued. "She cried and said how bad she felt about herself. How hard it is to compete with the other girls on that squad. What was I supposed to do, Gary? She wanted to be noticed more."

"Well, she sure as hell got noticed, didn't she?"

For the briefest moment, Santana wondered how much weight the bars behind her could hold. Would they support one hundred pounds dangling and twitching at the end of a rope? She didn't know how to tie a noose, but Sheila might be able to demonstrate. Santana had recently met the Skanks' most antisocial member while hanging out with Quinn in the boiler room at school. The girl's knowledge of all things sinister and corrupt really did seem boundless; with no provocation, she made a chilling ten minute speech about the types of punishment rapists deserved. Before strolling off to appropriate some lunch money, she'd offered Santana a switchblade as protection. Now Santana wished she had accepted it. Surely a knife carving into her flesh would elicit a reaction. And she knew just where to start slicing, she thought, gazing down at her chest.

Estella muttered in Spanish, invoking—or possibly swearing at—one of the saints. When she spoke to Gary again, her voice had regained its previous intensity. "I can't believe you would say something like that. Do you even hear yourself? It sounds like you're blaming her for all of this. You're her father, for Christ's sake. No matter what she's done, or how she's behaving right now, she still needs your love and support, not your judgment."

"She has my love and support, but am I supposed to sit back and watch while she destroys herself? Ever since she started spending time with the Fabray girl again, she's been out of control. She reeks of cigarette smoke. She skips class. I'm pretty sure she's had a hangover the past couple weekends. And don't tell me you're happy with the way she came home looking after that slumber party."

Santana traced her tongue over the silver ball-closure ring in the corner of her bottom lip, the spot chosen because it aligned with Quinn's new scar. She was supposed to avoid touching the piercing for the next few weeks, but she had also been advised not to smoke or drink alcohol until it healed—and as her father had just pointed out, she wasn't abiding by those rules, either.

While accompanying Quinn to get her stitches removed the morning after their slumber party, Santana decided to follow through with the vodka-inspired makeover plans from the night before. They had gone straight from the doctor's office to the parlor where Quinn's ex worked. He was a twenty-something stoner who used the word "dude" to punctuate every sentence. According to Quinn, she'd only dated him for the free ink and piercings. If he harbored any resentment, it didn't show; he took Santana at her word when she claimed to have parental consent, and he charged half-price because she was a friend of "the pink lady." Her new hairstyle was cheap thanks to Quinn too. Armed with scissors, bleach and a tub of Manic Panic, the girl wreaked havoc in the Fabray's upstairs bathroom, coating the once-immaculate space in a layer of dark fuzz and staining the sink purple. She enjoyed the process a little too much, resembling a six-year-old playing beauty shop with her Barbie. But she had transformed Santana's lank black hair as skillfully as any professional stylist. Most of its length intact, it now fell in choppy layers around her face and shoulders. Long, asymmetrical bangs perpetually covered her right eye, so she either had to tilt her head or give it a small flick to see from that side. Just as often as not, she left the locks in place. Thin violet streaks were interspersed among the sable.

It was a look she wouldn't even have considered less than a month ago. She would have laughed in anyone's face—and probably tossed a few insults for good measure—if they predicted that she might go emo someday. But there wasn't enough left of the old her to care about the new one's appearance. Besides, this sullen and slightly tortured look suited her, inside and out. It complimented the head to toe black she wore most days, seldom revealing more skin than was necessary. With Quinn's assistance, she'd also discovered what a useful combo heavy liner and dark eye shadow were for hiding everything from pain to evidence of late night binges. The cigarettes seemed a natural extension of the whole ensemble. She didn't really like their taste or smell. They still made her vaguely nauseated. But learning how to hold the toxic fumes in her lungs for longer periods of time, how to release them without hacking violently, made her feel as if she had at least some control over the harmful things that went into her body. Plus, it gave her an excuse to spend even more time with Quinn. They were becoming inseparable, often ditching class to hang out in whatever random part of the school that had a door with a lock to pick. Their easy and candid discussions as they passed Lucky Strikes back and forth were the bright spots in the otherwise bleak landscape of McKinley High. Quinn never criticized the dramatic persona she'd helped create.

Santana listened carefully to her mother's slow response:

"Of course I'm not, but if that's how she needs to express herself, then so be it. Can't you see she's acting out? You accuse her of not caring enough, but all you have to do is take a look at that child to know how much she's hurting."

"It's not normal," Gary said flatly. "No one is going to take her seriously like that. They're going to write her off just like they did today at that sham of a pretrial."

"You'd rather she went on wasting away and hiding out in her room all the time?"

"No. Jesus Chri— I just... I want to be able to recognize my little girl again." His voice became thick with grief. "I don't know who she is anymore."

"She is your daughter, Gary. _Tu hija_. The same one you sat up rocking all night when she had ear infections. The same one you played tea party with. The same one you taught to drive a car."

_And whose butt you covered when she left a six-inch scrape in the side of her mother's beloved convertible_, Santana thought. He'd had to grab the wheel and steer while Santana squealed and flailed at the sound of the yellow pole grating against the red vintage Ferrari. She'd almost had a heart attack, but he merely laughed at her ability to hit the only pole in an empty parking lot. He dropped the car off at a body shop and spent the evening lying to his wife and trading conspiratorial winks with Santana. Estella was none the wiser when her vehicle came back with a brand new paint job. Gary had been pleased that it looked exactly as it did before. One hundred percent normal.

"I haven't forgotten a single moment of that. But she's like a stranger to me now," he was currently saying. "I'm worried about this path she's headed down. We need to intervene. I think we should tell her to stop seeing the Fabray girl."

"_Su nombre es _Quinn," Estella snapped.

"Okay, then. We should tell her to stop seeing Quinn," he said, biting down harshly on the name. "That girl is a bad influence. And they're getting too close. It's... unhealthy."

"_Ay Díos mío_. Is that what this is about? You're afraid they'll end up in a relationship? I thought you said it didn't matter to you if she was a lesbian."

"I said I would still love her if she was a lesbian. I didn't say it would be easy to accept."

There. Santana finally felt something—she felt the deep, empty space inside her heart expanding.

"Well," Estella said with a note of finality, "you had better get used to it, or you'll end up pushing her even further away. If you do that, I will never forgive you. And I won't tell her to stop seeing Quinn. That girl is one of the few friends who's stuck by her through this whole thing, and we are not taking that away from her."

After a long silence, a kitchen chair scuffed the laminate flooring and a pair of footsteps tramped into the living room, another close behind it. "Where are you going?" Estella asked, her voice no longer muffled by distance. She and Gary were directly behind Santana, in the first floor archway several feet below. All they had to do was glance up to see her sitting there with her back to the balusters, eavesdropping on every last word. She didn't bother trying to hide.

"Obviously my opinion isn't worth much around here," said Gary. "You've got everything figured out, so I'm going to the hospital where I can be of use."

"Oh yes, run off to work. That's all you do anymore. I don't know how you expect your daughter to connect with you when you're not even here."

"Look who's talking. You spend every chance you get up in that damn studio. You're as eager to get away from her as—"

Suddenly, Estella gasped, breaking Gary off mid-sentence. Santana didn't need to look down at them to determine what caused the interruption, but eventually she peered over her shoulder, head tipped so the bangs slanted away from her face. Estella's fingers were pressed to her lips, silencing them as she gazed with widened eyes at the landing. Gary—jaw clenched, a deep furrow between his knitted brows—was still pointing towards the loft above the garage, which he had converted into a studio for his wife the Mother's Day after Santana was born. He lowered his arm slowly, hand going limp at his side.

"Baby," Estella said in a tremulous whisper.

"Finish what you were saying, Dad." It took Santana a moment to get on her feet, the transition from sitting to standing made arduous by the sling. She held onto the banister, pulled herself upright with some effort, then stood gazing at her father with cold detachment. "Mom's as eager to get away from me as you are," she supplied when he didn't respond.

"That's not... I didn't mean it that way," he said softly, his features etched with sorrow. "_Lo siento_, _mija_. It just came out wrong."

"Kinda like me, huh?" Santana asked.

Estella shook her head, nudging past Gary on her way to the staircase. "No," she said, and then halted on the first step when Santana's palm went up, warning her to stay put.

"Speaking of coming out." Santana turned the palm over and lifted it in a partial shrug. "Probably time I told you I'm a lesbian. Although, I guess you already heard that elsewhere. I didn't mention it sooner because I was afraid you'd have trouble accepting it." She looked pointedly at her father. "But you might as well know, since I'm such a disappointment anyway."

"You're not a disappointment, _mija_. I—"

"And you don't have to worry about me and Quinn. I'm not fucking her, if that's what you think." Santana ignored her mother, who murmured her name as a gentle reprimand; she kept her visible eye narrowed on her father as he smoothed a hand down the length of his face, gathering composure. She had never spoken to him like that in her life—never dreamed of doing so until the moment the words were on her lips. Now that she'd crossed that line, she felt a dangerous and reckless sort of freedom. Nothing left to lose. "She prefers dick, and I've had way too much of it. Pretty sure the whole four to one ratio ruined my appetite for sex, lesbian or otherwise. So, at least something good came from getting raped, right? Cured me of being a slut and a dyke at the same time. Two birds, one stone. One girl, four cocks? Maybe you should send Lee and the guys a thank you card or—"

"That's enough," Gary said with a weary sigh, his posture sagging. He looked like he had aged several years in the span of a few seconds. His cheeks were ashen, and even the hair at his temples seemed grayer. Santana used to tease him about the silver strands that were subtly weaving themselves into his thick, wavy black hair, but now they made her feel guilty for causing the stress that put them there. And that, in turn, made her angrier.

"Oh. Sorry. Am I not being normal enough for you?" Santana hated the sound of her own voice as it poured out sarcasm and spite on the man she loved and respected most in the world. But trying to stop it now would be like attempting to hold back the tide. "You know, it's kind of ironic that you don't want me to hang out with someone who looks like a freak, even though we're just friends. You should've been more concerned about me spending so much time with the perfectly normal blond-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader. I mean, seriously, didn't you guys ever wonder why my door was always locked when Brittany stayed over? I can't tell you how many times we were in the middle of some really hot—"

"I said shut up!" Gary roared, the abrupt change in his temper startling Santana and Estella. He prided himself on being the rational one in the family, seldom losing himself in an argument the way his wife and daughter could. Santana didn't remember him ever shouting at her before, let alone telling her to shut up. He was repentant the second she flinched at the loud noise, but when he approached the stairs with his hand outstretched apologetically, she shrank back from the banister and said:

"Stay the hell away from me."

Pretending not to notice his crushed expression or her mother's voice repeating her name, she stormed down the hall and put every ounce of muscle into flinging her bedroom door shut. A moment later, she heard the front door slam with equal vengeance. It rattled her to the core, nearly dropping her to the carpet. She wanted to turn right around, race after her father, tell him she was so very sorry. She wanted to cry in his arms and be called _mija_ again. Instead, her legs carried her over to the bed and knelt beside it. Her arm plunged into the dark space underneath, fingers groping along the wooden frame, then retracted. In her hand she held the bottle of Merlot she'd stolen from her parents' wine rack two nights ago. She disliked red wine—or any wine, for that matter—and this one had already started to taste extra sour, but it would still get the job done tonight. Since the slumber party, she had relied on a self-prescribed regimen of pills and alcohol to help her sleep. It worked best on the weekends when Quinn was part of the cocktail. This was only Wednesday, however, and Santana would have to make do.

Seating herself cross-legged on the floor beside her bed, back towards the wall, she uncorked the Merlot with her teeth. She let the stopper fall into her lap, pinned the bottle between her thighs and reached for the silver pill box on her nightstand. The round case was filled to capacity with Valium and Vicodin tablets, separated into the individual compartments by her mother, who had taken pity on her one-handed battles with blister packs and childproof lids. Her parents trusted her not to abuse the medication, probably assuming that being raised by a doctor gave her sound judgment when it came to drugs. _Sorry to let you guys down again_, she thought, thumbing the container open and scooping out one of the blue pills with her fingertip. She cupped it in her palm for a moment, studying the tiny "V" shape at its center. It resembled the hearts she used to adorn her signature in, back when she was a Cheerio. Back when "V" stood for victory, not Valium.

"Split that V, dot that I, curve that C-T-O-R-Y," she chanted under her breath. Smiling wryly, she popped the tablet into her mouth and washed it down with a swig of Merlot. She shuddered and gagged as the liquid coursed down her throat, leaving a vinegary taste on her tongue. Face twisted in disgust, she was about to take another gulp when she heard a soft knock on the bedroom door. Hurriedly she snapped the pill box closed and returned it to the nightstand. "Go away."

"Sweetheart, it's me." Estella waited for an answer. When none came, she said, "_¿Se puede? _Please. I just want to talk."

"Pick a fucking language first," Santana muttered against the lip of the bottle, then rolled her eyes and purposely took a long sip.

"What?"

"I said leave me alone. Jesus." Both legs tucked under her, Santana rocked onto her knees and set the bottle on the floor, leaning on it for support as she shoved to her feet. She picked it up by the neck and went to lock the door before she got too dizzy to stagger across the room. Her hand was on the knob when a persistent knock made her jerk the door open on impulse. She blocked it with her body, holding it slightly ajar to glare at her mother through the gap. The bottle began to slip from beneath her immobilized arm and she rescued it with the opposite hand, trying to keep it out of view. "I don't want to talk right now. I'm going to bed. Just... go paint something."

"Hey, don't be..." Estella trailed off, catching a glimpse of the wine as Santana snuck it behind her back. "What is that?" she asked, arms folded over her chest as if she were providing herself with a comforting embrace. She looked more hurt than angry—at first. "Are you drinking? Open this door."

Santana nudged the door with her foot, but her mother prevented it from swinging shut and gave it a small push from the other side. "Get off," Santana grunted, turning to throw her good shoulder against the barrier. A brief shoving match ensued as they both put their weight into driving each other backward. Almost thirty pounds lighter than her mother and hindered by the sling, the bottle and the Valium, Santana quickly lost the struggle. She stumbled back a step, her arm thrust out in reflex, the Merlot on full display as Estella forced her way inside.

"What the hell is your problem? Get out of my goddamn room," Santana said in the nastiest tone she could muster. She felt herself becoming needlessly cruel, but she didn't care. She was so fucking sick of people invading her privacy.

Estella planted a fist on either hip, standing her ground. She had deceptively pert features, her curvy lips and bright eyes hinting at a smile even when she wore a neutral expression; strangers on the street often mistook her passive glance for a warm greeting and continued by her with smiles of their own. But the electric charm that inspired others to describe her as stunning or bewitching was the very thing that made her so formidable now. It gave her a vibrancy truly frightening to behold. Even when Santana was at her brattiest, she had never liked to bring out this side of her mother. "I will not. You are not allowed to speak to me like that," said Estella. She held out her palm, gesturing with her fingers. "And you have no business drinking. Give me the bottle."

Eyebrow cocked, Santana placed the bottle to her lips and tipped her head back much further than necessary. She sidled past her mother as she nursed the sip, dodging the hand that reached for her. Plunking down on the end of her bed, she swallowed the tiny mouthful she had actually taken and smacked her lips noisily. This time she managed not to gag. She looked up with a defiant little smirk, expecting to be met by a furious glare. But her mother was fighting dirty. Tears glistened in her pretty brown eyes, and the upturned corners of her mouth quivered with anything but humor. Anger would have been preferable to this. There was no satisfaction in being a smartass when it made your mother cry.

"Don't do this to yourself." Estella tilted her head pleadingly, her long, raven hair—so like Santana's had once been—tumbling over one shoulder. "I'm sorry you heard all of that, and I don't blame you for being upset. But this isn't the answer, _mi niña_. It will only make things worse."

"Worse than finding out your own dad thinks you deserved to get raped?" Santana asked, giving a soft snort. Not trusting her flighty emotions, she fixed her gaze on the mouth of the wine bottle, inserting her thumb into the hole and plucking it back out again. She became absorbed in repeating the motion and barely noticed her mother's approach until the mattress sagged beside her.

"Now you listen here. He doesn't think any such thing," Estella said, the words firm though she spoke in a quiet, maternal voice. "Your dad loves you more than life itself. We both do. That's why this has been so hard for him to deal with." She swept the bangs out of Santana's eyes, then lightly urged her chin up with a tender palm. Santana resisted for as long as she could, but finally gave in when there was nowhere else to look. Her mother's loving expression made her ache to be held again. She knew she only needed to ask, and she would be gathered into a hug that, once upon a time, had been able to solve all her problems.

Slowly, she turned her face away until her mother let go. "If he loves me so much, why'd he leave?"

"He's just ashamed of losing his temper. Give him some time, sweetheart. And try not to be too angry at him. I think he feels like he failed you by not protecting you from those boys, and it's breaking his heart that he can't do more for you now. Today, finding out that... _thing_ got off so easily—it was too much for him."

Santana continued to play with the bottle as she listened, circling her fingertip around the rim. The movement had a hypnotic effect that, along with the Valium diffusing through her system, left her unable to focus visually or mentally. Her eyelids were getting heavier by the minute, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the bedcovers and forget this whole damn day (_week_ _month_ _lifetime_); forget that her father had every right to blame her for Lee only receiving a slap on the wrist. She was the coward—the stupid, fucking coward, of all things for her to be—who had hidden information from the police to save herself some embarrassment. She was the reason her family had begun to fall apart at the seams. Distantly she heard herself say, "Great. Defend him. I thought you were on my side."

"I am." Estella touched Santana's shoulder, guiding a purple strand of hair aside with her index finger. "But I want you to remember that he is, too."

Santana shrugged her mother's hand off and edged to the corner of the bed. "Is that why you spent, like, forty-five minutes bitching at him for not believing in me?"

Sighing wearily, Estella pressed her fingertips against her closed eyelids for a moment, her head bowed. When she spoke, she sounded as exhausted as Santana felt. "Baby, that was the stress and the anger talking. Neither of us meant half—"

Annoyed at being condescended to as if she were a four-year-old who couldn't understand why mommies and daddies argued, Santana cut into the explanation with a dull, impatient tone: "Can you just leave me alone?" She peeled at the Merlot label, casting sideways glances at her mother, who sat watching her in silence for an uncomfortably long time.

After a while, Estella tsked her tongue. "I'll go if you give me that," she said, and without waiting for a response, she reached over to coax the wine bottle out of Santana's hand. She gave an insistent tug when it didn't budge. "I am not asking you, Santana María. If you want me to leave, fine, but I'm taking the—"

Suddenly, Santana shot to her feet and yanked viciously on the neck of the bottle, drenching her sleeve and making Estella drew back in surprise. She didn't even care about the wine anymore, but the idea of having it taken away without permission filled her with such rage the air itself seemed to spark, the room to expand and contract. Retreating a few steps from the bed, she clutched the bottle to her abdomen and positioned herself in the corner where wall and dresser met—the safest spot available. She couldn't stand to be flat against any surface for too long, but having something solid at her back lessened the chances of anyone sneaking up on her from behind. Breathing heavily, she snarled at Estella through clenched teeth, "Get out of my room."

Though an apprehensive look flitted across Estella's face, her eyes were blazing by the time she stood up. "You watch your—"

"Get the fuck out!" Santana screamed at the top of her lungs. And in that same moment, the atmosphere was elastic again, stretching to its limits, then snapping inward like a rubber band pulled taut at both ends and released. Santana wasn't as resilient. She had neared her breaking point one too many times, had existed there for weeks, the tension distorting her beyond recognition. As it finally rent her in two, there was a soul-searing backlash of emotion she couldn't contain. It found an outlet through her extending arm, on down to her palm, skittering along each finger, and traveling straight to the bottle in her hand like lightning to a metal rod; while it was still trapped inside the glass conductor, buzzing to get out, she hurled it as far away from herself as possible. Only after it had sailed over the bed and smashed against the opposite wall did she realize how close she'd come to hitting Estella. Her mother. She had thrown half a bottle of wine at her mother without batting an eyelash.

They stared at each other in shock, neither of them daring to move or speak, for what seemed like hours. Estella's eyes were enormous above the hand she had clapped to her mouth, gasping when the bottle whizzed past, spattering red droplets in its wake. A few had landed on her cheeks, and as her tears welled over, turning them to crimson streams, she appeared to be crying blood. She shook her head and eventually lowered her hand, but no words came from her parted lips, just a small breathy sound. Her chest hitched, and she hurried for the door as another faint sob escaped.

Santana started to go after her mother, but the mixture of alcohol and Valium was taking effect. She managed to lurch forward a step before wooziness stopped her cold. Steadying herself against the dresser, she said, "Mom, I..."

_What? 'I didn't mean it'? _How did you explain to someone that almost clobbering her in the face with a heavy bottle was an accident; that you were sorry and you loved her; that she was the last person on earth you wanted to hurt?

Estella paused in the doorway and looked back through a haze of tears. "This moment. Right here," she said, her voice and hand trembling as she pointed at the wine stain on the wall, "This is the first time I have ever been disappointed in you." She closed the door quietly behind her, muffled cries trailing down the hallway as she sought refuge in her own safe place—the studio built so she could work at home and raise her baby girl.

Santana might have been able to bear it if her mother had yelled, screamed, slammed the door on the way out. But this sniffling, heartbroken departure was too much. It felt like a goodbye, and an unrequited one at that. It felt like abandonment. She crumpled to her knees on the floor and tried to call her mother back, getting out little more than a weak, "Mama..." as her voice cracked, breath snatched away by deep, excruciating sorrow. Doubling over, she pressed her face against the carpet, letting it absorb the choked sobs for her mother and the flood of hot tears when she didn't return.

It occurred to Santana that she had officially ruined everything in her life. She wasn't the straight daughter her parents would have preferred, yet she'd whored around and made it okay for boys to take what they desired from her. She didn't fight hard enough, and now four rapists would be walking the halls of William McKinley, twice as smug as before. Her relationship with Brittany would never be the same and was probably over anyway, along with her sex life. Though she and Quinn were closer than ever, she sensed herself becoming too clingy, too attached—and it was only a matter of time until Quinn would find a boyfriend and forget about her. She had tainted her newfound friendship with Rachel from the start, forcing the girl to keep secrets. She wasn't a Cheerio anymore. Glee club just made her sad because it reminded her of the fun and confidence she used to have while performing. She was nurturing a drug and alcohol addiction, flunking her classes, smoking cigarettes until her ugly black clothes and purple hair stank so badly she wanted to vomit. And then tonight. Tonight, she had destroyed her family once and for all. She was poisonous—a grotesque, spidery cancer consuming everything it touched.

_You can't even pick yourself up off the goddamn ground_, she thought. _You should be buried underneath it, you stupid, fucking bitch_.

She lost track of how much time she spent there, bawling in the fetal position, her fingers digging into the carpet fibers until she scraped the rough backing below. When she did raise her head and glance around the empty room, it looked unfamiliar somehow, more tangible. As if she had been gone for years and returned to find that it was not the place that had changed but her perspective. She swiped at her wet cheeks and hissed, the salty tears stinging her fingertips. At first she couldn't figure out why there was red fluid seeping from beneath her fingernails. But as she studied the imprints she had left clawing at the tan carpet, she realized it was blood. And that's when she understood what was different, what her beaten-down body and spirit had finally gotten across to her equally taxed mind: she was alive, but she didn't want to be.

It made perfect sense now. She wished to God, or whoever hated her enough to punish her so brutally, that she had died that night under the bleachers. She wished Karofsky would have pulled just a little bit tighter for a little bit longer. If she really thought about it, she'd been trying to convey that message to herself and everyone around her for weeks. In fact, she had come right out and said it to her friends more than once. She dreamed about it. And what else were the pills, alcohol and cigarettes but slow, subtle ways to cut her life short?

Well, slow and subtle had never been Santana's style.

Shuffling on her knees and occasionally putting her hand to the floor for balance, she rounded the bed and caught sight of the mess she had made with the wine bottle. A dark splotch had formed on impact, liquid tentacles dispersed widely on the textured black wallpaper she and her mother had slaved over for days when she decided aquamarine wasn't her favorite color anymore. A burgundy stain, about the size of a dinner plate, had soaked into the carpet and would soon be warping the floorboards beneath. It looked like a grisly crime scene with no body (_yet_), unless you counted the Merlot bottle, broken in two just past the neck. She picked up the slender half, contemplating its jagged edges and wondering how much strength was required to slit a wrist. She knew the proper way to do it—vertical cuts, not horizontal—but she wasn't sure she could slash deeply enough with one arm in a sling. Despite daily exercises, her fingers were weak and stiff on that hand. The last thing she needed right now was the embarrassment of a botched suicide attempt. Besides, she didn't want to bleed all over the room her mother had helped decorate. She'd already caused enough damage with the wine.

She put down the bottle neck, fitting it together with its mate like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, then scooted around the debris and reached for the pill box on her nightstand. Giving it a shake, she nodded vaguely at the clunky rattling within. That should just about cover it. She flipped open the lid to gaze at the white and blue tablets, debating which ones to start with and how many were necessary. Too many, and she would have puke stains to clean up along with the wine; too few, and she might end up strapped to a gurney in the psych ward or lying in a coma, unable to wake from an endless sequence of nightmares. More than that, if she was successful, she didn't want either of her parents to be the ones who found her body. Not here in the room where she had grown up. Not where her father had rocked her to sleep and her mother had spent hours brushing and braiding her hair, treating each strand like silk. Let them keep those memories of her. Maybe, in some small way, that would make up for the pain she was bringing them now. Maybe someday they would look back and only remember her as the good and sweet little girl they once loved, not this curse she had become.

Snapping the lid shut, she placed the container back on the nightstand. She could wait another day. It would give her the chance to plan things out better and say a few goodbyes to the people who deserved them. _Yes_, she told herself decisively. _Tomorrow, then._ And she knew just the right location.

Santana took a deep breath and retrieved the wastebasket next to her bed, dragging it over to the spill on the carpet. She was exhausted and still a bit dizzy, but as she discarded the broken bottle and plucked slivers of glass off the floor, she felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders. For the first time since the Halloween festival, she was anticipating what tomorrow held in store.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Many, many thanks for the chapter 8 reviews. I hope chapter 9 is to your liking as well. I know I'm a slow updater, guys, and I apologize. Believe me, I would prefer to be fast, but I am a horribly slow writer even when I don't have a mondo case of writer's block. I've been trying to keep it at two weeks between updates, and I'm pretty proud of myself for keeping up so far. I know it's not ideal, but it's how I work. :-/ **YourGleek:** I agree about _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_. There shouldn't be anything comfortable about a rape scene—it's supposed to be disturbing and brutal, because that's what rape is. I was glad the movie didn't pull any punches. As for the pee slushies being ridiculous... honestly, that's what I was going for. It's Brittany, so I wanted it to be quirky. And yay, it makes me happy that there are some Estella fans out there. I wanted her to be a good mom in this one (she's not quite as nice in my other fics), so I'm happy that's coming across. I've had some other requests for more Estella/Santana scenes, and I do love writing her, so hopefully I can work her in some more. Thanks for the good vibes and the review. :)** ClawingAtTheSurface:** Aww, I'm sorry. And unfortunately, I can't promise that it'll get cheerful any time soon. I've tried to keep it light when I can, because sometimes I just need a break from all the drama myself, but there's not a lot of opportunities for fluff. Do you have a dog? I've had to resort to hugging mine a few times because of this story. He keeps me from turning to random strangers, lol. **lovecanbesostrange:** Yeah, I was disappointed with the characterization (or lack thereof) of Jennifer Hills too. I've only seen the remake, and it was decent, but they could have done so much more with it. I'm honored that you feel like my story accomplishes that. And thank you for your continued in-depth reviews. Much appreciated. **Gypsy Babe:** I have indeed considered writing a book. Maybe I'll give it a whirl, if I survive this fanfic, lol. Thank you!

All right, now I'll leave you to chapter 9. Please let me know what you think.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER NINE<strong>

* * *

><p>Santana stepped forward tentatively and peered through the diamond-shaped links, her fingers lacing around the cold wire with caution. She half-expected a powerful zap to send her catapulting backwards or vaporize her on the spot, but all she felt was a chill as the metal absorbed the heat from her palm. It was the same dull and lifeless fence that had always girded the football field, keeping out wayward students and vandals. Until the night of the festival, she hardly ever paid it a second glance. Now she could recall just how much give there was in the rusted old mesh as her body collided with it. She knew the harsh clanking sounds it made when shaken violently, resonating for yards, getting under your skin and setting your teeth on edge. In her dreams the fence had become a living, breathing entity, an 8-foot-tall steel predator that coiled around its prey and squeezed, squeezed, squeezed. She had avoided passing it, and the bleachers beyond, since her return to school. For weeks she'd taken the long route through the buildings and sat in the back of every classroom, far removed from the windows, her eyes never once straying towards the field. She wasn't entirely sure her feet would cooperate in getting her here today, but here she stood, in the same stretch of grass where Karofsky had slapped her to the ground and called her a bitch. It didn't look any different than it had before. No signs of a struggle, no historical markers detailing it as the site of origin to a bloody, harrowing battle. It was like she had never been there at all.<p>

Dropping her book bag to the ground, she dug a pack of cigarettes from the pouch in front and nudged one out, pulling it free with her lips. She rummaged around for a lighter and finally found it tucked away in the pocket of the Led Zeppelin hoodie Quinn had loaned her earlier in the week. She probably should have worn something of her own, but the sweatshirt was warm and cozy, and she liked the fallen angel emblem on the chest. It seemed appropriate, although the idea that she had ever been remotely angelic was laughable. She gave a humorless chuckle, then lit the cigarette with a trembling hand. Quinn claimed that smoking calmed her nerves; so far, all it did for Santana was make her more anxious. Still, she needed a distraction from her racing heart and churning stomach. Savoring the first few puffs, she released them in long streams through the fence and watched them dissolve, the bleachers materializing from the fog. Last night, after the argument with her mother, that was where she decided to die—that lonely, awful place from which she never should have emerged. It had sounded poetic in her head. Her life had already ended there, and maybe by offering up the shell that remained, she would appease whichever god she'd angered by escaping with it. But now, in the gloomy light of this November afternoon, it didn't look like a sacrificial altar or the lake of fire and brimstone she remembered. She was just staring at the underside of some dirty bleachers. There was nothing ominous about them, but her heart lodged itself firmly in her throat the longer she hung back, gazing in their direction.

At least no one she cared about would find her if she did it here. Only three people at McKinley truly mattered to her anymore, and the chances of them stumbling across her dead body were slim. She had already sent them on their way after school, assuring Quinn and Rachel she had a ride home with Brittany, who believed she had a ride home with Quinn. Today, acting normal around them had been surprisingly easy. Perhaps too easy. They were all expecting her to be upset about the outcome of Lee's pretrial, and they kept exchanging concerned looks when she was a regular chatterbox during lunch period. Well, Quinn and Rachel had; Brittany just looked relieved to see her in a good mood for once. She had fielded Quinn's questions like a pro when they ditched PE to smoke in the janitor's closet, too. The rest of her class time was spent composing letters to the three girls and her parents. For nearly fifteen minutes after the dismissal bell rang, she hid out in the restroom, waiting for the halls to clear so she could deliver a letter to each girls' locker without getting caught.

She began with Rachel, whose combination she didn't know, requiring her to carefully slide the folded piece of paper into the crack alongside the door. Tomorrow morning, or perhaps on Monday, if school were canceled due to the suicide on campus, the girl would open her locker, see the note flutter to the ground like an errant butterfly, and pick it up to read:

_Dear Rachel,_

_No matter how I say this, it's going to sound lame coming from me now. Especially since I'm writing it in a letter like a coward, instead of telling you to your face. So I'll just get straight to the point. I wanted you to know that I'm sorry for all the mean stuff I've said and done to you since we were kids. There's probably not enough pages in this notebook to list all the junk I've put you through, but I doubt you've forgotten any of it, anyway. Just know that you didn't deserve any of it, okay? Mostly, I was jealous of you. You've always known exactly who you are, and you don't compromise that to fit in or be liked. Believe me, that's a good quality to have. Keep it. And don't ever let anyone tell you you're not awesome. If they try, just go all Lima Heights on them for me._

_I wish we could've been friends longer and under different circumstances. You've been a better friend to me in the past couple weeks than most people I've known for years. Thank you. If you need to tell someone what happened to us in the choir room, I'll understand. Don't think of it as breaking a promise. If I had to trust anyone to do the right thing with one of my secrets, it would be you._

_Good luck in New York. Go be that star you were born to be. I hope you have an amazing life._

_A fan,_  
><em>Santana<em>

At Brittany's locker, it took her at least five minutes to decide where to put the folded-up yellow notepaper. She tested it between several different book covers, but worried it would slip in among the pages and be lost. She propped it against the pencil case full of makeup, then trapped it underneath, and eventually shut it inside with the glittery eye shadows and scented lip balms. But the thought of her last words to Brittany forever smelling like Cinnabon or Skittles Lip Smackers changed her mind. Scent was the most powerful memory trigger of all, she knew that without question. In the end, she unfolded the note, smoothed out the crease and pinned it inside the locker door with a kiss and a cat-shaped magnet.

_Hey Britt-Britt,_

_I'm really sorry, sweetie. I know you think I'm tough and brave and can handle anything, but I just don't have anymore fight left in me. Too much has happened, and I'm no good to you or anyone else now. I can't go on pretending I'm okay or that I'll ever be who I was before. I wanted to be, for your sake. Please know that I tried. And don't blame yourself for any of this. My life was better because you were in it. You've only ever made me happy, so don't be sad after you read this. Go on being happy. For both of us. _

_Remember I love you. It's been hard for me to say lately and even harder for me to show it, but that's not because of anything you've done. You have a place in my heart, always. Save room for me in yours if you can. Whoever you end up with will be damn lucky, but you tell them you were mine first. I hope I've left you with as many good memories as you've given me. I wish I could've stuck around to see how things turned out for us. Best friends, lovers, whatever—we were a great pair, don't you think? _

_There's no one else in the world like you, Brittany S. Pierce. Don't you forget it._

_Yours,_  
><em>Tana<em>

By the time she reached Quinn's locker, she was too edgy to remember the combination she had learned at the beginning of semester when the girl went home with the flu and needed her binder. After three failed attempts to enter the proper digits, she cursed her shaking hand and the unopened lock and pushed the note through a slot in the door. She had felt like a middle-schooler sneaking a valentine to her crush.

Some valentine.

_Q,_

_I bet you're pissed off at me right now. I'm pissed off at me too. I thought I was stronger than this. Turns out, I'm all bark and no bite. But then, you've always known that about me, haven't you? That's why you never took any of my shit. Don't stay mad at me too long, though. I wanted to tell you what I was going to do, but I knew you'd try to stop me. You're one of the only things that's kept me sane through it all. If I hadn't had you to talk to, I would have done this much sooner, I think. So you did stop me in a way. It just got to be too much, and that's not your fault. It's not anybody's fault but mine. _

_How did we get so messed up, you and I? Weren't we supposed to be the lucky ones? I'm sorry I wasn't more understanding about what you went through. I get it now. And no offense, but your dad is a jackass for walking out on you. Screw him. He doesn't know what he's missing. Do me a favor, and graduate. Graduate and leave this shitty town behind and go do something incredible that will show all these assholes that they're wrong about us. Or wrong about you, anyway. I wish I could be there beside you. We've hit most of our milestones together these past few years. But this is one I have to do alone. _

_Thanks for looking out for me. Can you keep an eye out for Brittany too? Make sure she's not sad and all that. Get her to watch The Parent Trap (Mills, not Lohan), it always cheers her up. And try to be nice to Rachel. She's got a good heart. She'll be a really good friend to you if you let her._

_By the way, I think you'll be a great mom someday. _

_Always,_  
><em>S<em>

_P.S. I like what you did with my hair, but tell my mom she can dye it back for the funeral if she wants._

Now just one note remained, and it had been the hardest to write. Each time she put pen to paper, her eyes brimmed with tears that threatened to spill out in front of her teachers and classmates. She'd had to finish the goodbye to her parents in the bathroom stall, her hair and tears falling onto the page as she leaned over it, scribbling words faster than her brain and bleary vision could register them.

_Dear Mom & Dad,_

_I didn't mean anything I said last night. I'm so ashamed of the way I treated both of you. I'm so ashamed of myself for not being the daughter you deserved. You've been the best parents anyone could ever ask for, and all I've done is take advantage and lie to you and act like a jerk. I don't know why I turned out like I did. Maybe I really was defective somehow. But that's not your fault. None of this is, please remember that. I'm not doing this to hurt you or punish you. I've already done too much of that, and I hate myself for it. I would stay alive and be miserable if I thought it would spare you more pain, but I know once I'm gone you guys will be able to be happy again because I won't be there to mess things up. _

_Daddy, I'm sorry I didn't fight hard enough. I was too scared. I didn't want you to find out who I really was, because I knew you'd be disappointed. I thought I was protecting you, but I was being selfish and protecting me. I didn't stop to think how upset you'd be if I let them get away with what they did. If I could go back and make it right for you, I would. I'd be brave and honest and make you proud of me again. Please don't believe everything they say about me. A lot of it's true, but not all of it._

_Mama, I love you so much. I don't know how to apologize to you for throwing the wine bottle. It's the worst thing I've ever done, and I'm so deeply sorry. Can you understand that I didn't mean to do it? Something's wrong in my head, and I didn't even realize what happened until it was too late. You see, I'm falling apart. I can't think straight anymore. But there are no excuses. Just know I would rather die than risk hurting you like that again. Thank you for always trying to make life beautiful. _

_Don't worry about what happens to me afterwards. I've been in hell for weeks. Maybe this will bring me peace instead. Pray that it does. I wish I'd hugged you both this morning, but I was afraid I couldn't let go. The hardest part of all this is saying goodbye to you._

_Te quiero,_  
><em>Santana<em>

The note was in the main compartment of her book bag, wedged between Howard the teddy bear and a large yellow thermos. It shouldn't take her parents long to find after the coroner—or whoever—released her belongings to them. But what if that didn't happen right away? Suppose the bag ended up in storage somewhere for days, weeks, months. All that time passing, her parents believing she had forgotten about them or hated them enough to leave them with nothing. Maybe they wouldn't even see fit to check her bag, simply tossing it aside in their haste to be rid of her. She began to cry as she considered each scenario, and it occurred to her that the note might be better off in her locker. Someone was bound to find it when they cleared out her textbooks and incomplete homework assignments. But the school doors were probably latched shut, and if she turned around now, she would never find the courage to come back here.

She dragged her sleeve across her face, then sprinkled a few Lucky Strike ashes on the ground where she had lain beneath Karofsky and asked for help that didn't come. There, she had at least left some sort of mark, no matter how insignificant. After one last puff on the cigarette, she stubbed it out against the fence and flicked it into the grass as well. A quick glance over her shoulder verified that the campus was still empty, loiterers discouraged by the wintry nip in the air. Nevertheless, she moved with a sense of urgency, snatching up her book bag and hurrying towards the closed entrance to the field. Undeterred by the padlock, which drooped from a lengthy chain that left a gap several inches wide between the gate and the pole beside it, she stood back to launch her bag over the fence. Crouching down, she wormed her body through the opening. It was a tight squeeze with her sling in the way, but the flexibility had returned to her other limbs and she was skinnier than ever before. She made it to the opposite side with only a small rip in the knee of her jeans and minor scrapes to her knuckles and palm. Shouldering her bag, she dabbed her tongue to the sore spots on her hand and trudged towards the bleachers. This place always tasted like blood.

_And other things_, she thought, a moment before blanking her mind out completely. She moved on automatic, allowing herself to be overtaken by the transient force that seemed more in control of her actions these days than she did. It guided her forward until she was partway under the bleachers, the tiers a foot or so above, much farther in than she could have gone alone. As if she were watching someone else perform the task, she saw herself take a seat, gaze around just for a second at the shoe impressions in the dirt, then start to remove items from her bag. First, she extracted the letter to her parents and stuck it in the pocket of Quinn's hoodie, ensuring that one yellow corner was visible. Problem solved. Next, she brought out the teddy bear and Mrs. Pierce's thermos, filled to capacity with the vodka she had called to request Brittany steal from her parents at seven o'clock that morning. It hadn't been too difficult to convince the girl she wanted to make Jolly Rancher vodka for the slumber party at Quinn's house tomorrow night. She felt bad about the lie, but it was necessary—overnight, her mother had either hidden or dumped out every drop of liquor in the house.

Finally, from inside the bag, Santana withdrew her cell phone and the Cheerios uniform that had been stuffed in the back of her locker, beneath her heaviest textbooks, since Brittany put it there two weeks ago. She spread the clothing out on the ground in front of her, grooming it as meticulously as an evening dress draped over a bedspread. She smoothed the rumpled top until it lay flat, straightened every pleat of the skirt until they were aligned just so. Sitting back on her heels, she briefly admired her work, a faint smile on her lips. But there was much more to be done.

"You did a good job too, little guy," she said, reaching for Howard and turning him facedown in her lap. From the three-inch slit she had snipped into his back the night before, she removed the pillbox full of Valium and Vicodin—her final V-I-C-T-O-R-Y. Sue hadn't conducted any random drug searches on the Cheerios' lockers this semester, but better to be safe than sorry. Plus, it was an excuse to bring along a friend. Santana blew a piece of fuzz off the lid, opened it, set the case aside and righted Howard against her deflated book bag, giving him an apologetic pat on the head.

She uncapped the thermos, clamped it between her knees and screwed off the inner seal, also placing each one aside in a neat row. Her fingers hovered near the thermos, grabbing it up almost as soon as she let it go, and she gulped down a mouthful that stung her throat and made her eyes water. When she could breathe without coughing again, she put the container back in its space, arranged according to size with the caps and the pillbox. Strange how she was becoming so orderly at the end of her life. She hadn't been this tidy since the childhood tea parties she used to host for her parents and stuffed animals, every place setting fit for royalty. This did sort of resemble a little girl's playtime picnic—albeit a macabre one—especially with the teddy bear in attendance. Smirking at the thought, she double-checked to see if she had missed anything. Satisfied she hadn't, she began peeling apart the Velcro strips that secured the sling around her arm. She cringed at the loud ripping sounds they made, and glanced towards the fence, paranoid that she was being observed from the other side. There wasn't a soul in sight.

Wincing, she eased the cuff off her arm and ducked out of the shoulder strap, tossing the tangled restraint onto her bag. Despite her throbbing muscles and joints, it felt good to be free of the stiffly padded material. She had hit the three week mark, and the doctor was right—she no longer noticed the bone fragments in her arm shifting every time she moved. At four weeks, she would have been preparing to wear the sling only as needed for pain, then discontinuing its use altogether by week five or six. But she didn't have that long to wait, and she didn't want to die with it on. Soon the pain wouldn't matter.

She started to pick up her phone, gave it a second thought, scooped a blue tablet and a white one from the pillbox instead. Dropping both onto her tongue, she washed them down with a swig of vodka. Before her hand could resume shaking, she snatched up the phone and flipped it open, hurriedly scrolling through options until she reached her text messages. Her thumb lingered over the icon on the screen: 1 unread message. A small symbol in the corner indicated there was a video file attached. She didn't recognize the number, but she knew without a doubt who it was from. When the text alert sounded as she stowed books in her locker between classes, she had looked up from the blinking screen in time to see Lee flash a smile and a wave from the end of the hall. Then he pocketed his phone and sauntered away. She'd thrown hers into her bag as if it were scalding hot and hadn't touched it again until moments ago.

Devoid of every thought, every emotion, she pressed the icon and scanned the message while the video loaded. It simply read, "A-tisket, a-tasket."

"_Chinga tu madre y muerte puto_," Santana muttered.

Her eyes glazed over as she stared at the black window where the video would play, with one command of her fingertip. She wasn't trembling anymore. For years she had practiced packing ice around her heart, freezing out all the things she was too scared or ashamed to feel. Until now she had never truly succeeded. Right then she could have swallowed a hundred pills without breaking a sweat (_already dead inside anyway_). She could pull a trigger point-blank.

She pushed play.

The first sound was a piercing scream for help. It was too dark to see much of anything, and Jacob's cameraman skills were surprisingly poor; but when the picture did come into view, Karofsky was on top of her, telling her to breathe through her nose. She was splayed open on the ground like a frog for dissecting, whimpering and choking while he groped her breasts and rubbed his flaccid cock under her skirt. Her face was an ugly blot, the red and white of her costume and uniform the most identifiable features captured by the lens as it kept panning her body from head to foot. The wind roared into the microphone every few seconds, muffling the other boys' comments, Karofsky's attack on the fence, and her deep, rattling coughs after she pulled the underwear out of her mouth. Jacob wanted to see her tits. Lee guessed she liked it on her back. Karofsky thought she was too small, but Lee knew she was built just right. A moment later, they were all under the bleachers, where it was darker but quieter, less chaotic. Jacob's hands were steadier too, his breath coming in rapid puffs as he listened to her plead, threaten, and eventually resort to pathetic sobbing moans when Lee entered her. The camera zoomed in, focusing sharply on her face while he blew on her eyes to open them up.

Santana paused the recording, her terrorized expression gazing out from the screen. She didn't need to see the rest. Every last bit of it was there in her head, much more detailed and vivid than anything the cell phone had captured. No video could reproduce the scent of that watermelon gum as it slithered into her nostrils, coiling up like a snake in a burrow, refusing to surface. She smelled it just as plainly now as she did then. She felt his weight bearing down on top of her, crushing the air out of her lungs, hurting her, breaking her beyond repair.

Snapping the phone shut, she deposited it in the middle of the Cheerios uniform laid out before her, then turned away and quietly vomited into the dirt. Her stomach had been empty, except for the vodka and partially dissolved pills that were now on the ground. "So much for the first two," she sighed, watching the earth soak up the clear fluid around them. This place couldn't consume her fast enough. It had tasted blood and wanted more; it thirsted for her, body and soul.

_Here I am, motherfucker_, she thought. _Come and get me_.

She swiped a palm across her chin and turned back to the uniform. Sparingly, she poured a stream of vodka along its length, giving the phone an extra douse. Retrieving the lighter from her pocket, she inched backwards and stretched out her arm with caution, setting the skirt hem on fire. The polyester pleats ignited at once, and she barely had time to yank her hand away as the melting fabric curled in on itself, the vodka beckoning the flame. They greeted each other like lovers long parted, hungrily and passionately, the blaze flaring several feet into the air. Santana gasped and shielded her face, recoiling from the sudden burst of heat. When she had scooted to safety—first rescuing the thermos and pillbox, then Howard, the sling and her book bag—she sat gazing in wonder at the conflagration. It had died down, the flames no longer raging in a dense orange mass but dancing wispily across the charred uniform as it fused to the ground. Pieces of blackened material fluttered loose, squirming in the dirt as if they were alive. The cell phone wasn't burning quite as fast, but it had started to expand and bubble, softening until it resembled one of those melted clocks from a Salvador Dali painting. No chance of anyone seeing the video now, at least not on her phone.

The fire was a bigger success than she had counted on, and she considered putting it out so it wouldn't draw attention. But too much time had been wasted on ceremony. There was no sense in wasting any more on stamping out flames that were low enough to fade on their own. Besides, it was comforting in a way, this little pyre. Maybe she'd curl up there when she had numbed herself with too many drugs to notice her scorching flesh.

She started with another pair of white and blue tablets, dry swallowing them as she emptied the others into the weaker hand cradled on her lap. Thirty-two in total, sixteen Valium and sixteen Vicodin. Her research had been inconclusive, none of the sites she found on Google supplying a definite answer to how many pills were required for suicide. Coming up with her own solution, she brought thirty-six—eighteen of each prescription. One for every year of her life, and one for the year she wouldn't live to see. How appropriate that the extras had ended up languishing in the dirt. It threw off the symmetry she'd been going for, but she would just have to make do with what was left. She studied the handful, wondering if she should continue downing them two by two. But that reminded her too much of a Sunday school rhyme about Noah's ark. She decided on the more haphazard method of dotting them to her tongue, letting the moisture gather as many as possible, then chugging some vodka. That was how she'd liked to eat Smarties, licking them off Brittany's palm while the girl squawked about sharing, then chasing them with Coke to achieve the perfect fizzy effect. She tried to hold onto that memory as she carefully lifted her hand and tipped her head to meet it halfway. When her tongue was coated in at least half a dozen pills, she reached for the thermos, only to have it knocked out of her grasp moments before it touched her lips.

"Spit them out," Sue Sylvester demanded as she crouched down next to Santana, panting as if she had just run a marathon.

"Jesus! What the—" Santana jerked away in surprise, littering the ground with pills and nearly choking on the ones in her mouth. She gave a strangled cough and stared wide-eyed at Sue, whose open hand waited beneath her chin. When the shock had worn off, she glared at the woman, lips folded tightly shut.

"Don't be an idiot, Lopez. If you swallow them, I'll call 911 and you'll be in the hospital drinking charcoal and puking your guts out." Sue cupped her palm to Santana's chin, prodding lightly at either side of her jaw. "C'mon. Open up."

There wasn't much choice but to obey. It would have been impossible to swallow that many pills, especially the wider Vicodin tablets, without something to flush them down. They were useless anyway, since most of the others had landed at Sue's feet. But the anger that Santana felt surge up inside, like vodka and fire, had little to do with seeing her plans smashed beneath a pair of large Adidas cross trainers; more to do with the fingers gripping her jaw, wanting it open, forcing her against her will. She hawked saliva from the back of her throat and spat the pills into Sue's face.

"Get your fucking hands off me," she growled.

Sue flinched, blinking rapidly as the wet glob slid down her cheek. After a moment, her eyes narrowed on Santana, turning a cold, steely shade of blue, the brow between them pinched into harsh folds. She looked like she might retaliate in kind. Instead, she let go of Santana and wiped away the spit and a clinging Valium with the edge of her sleeve. For a second, her lips hinted at a smirk. Then, rising to her full height, she calmly said, "Get up."

"Go to hell." Santana tossed her bangs back, the better to look Sue straight in the eye while defying her. She was sick and tired of this bitch sticking her nose in where it didn't belong.

"I'm not leaving you out here. Either get up by yourself or I'm picking you up and carrying you into that building." Sue hitched her thumb towards the school, an equally stony expression on her face. You weren't a real Cheerio until she had fixed that hard stare on you at least once; the girls on the squad referred to it as "getting Sued." She gestured with her hand, as if she were displaying both options. "Your choice."

"My choice is for you to get the fuck away from me. Why the hell are you even out here?"

Sue reached into the pocket of her track jacket and pulled out a folded slip of yellow paper. On the front, a small "Q" was printed in smeared black ink. Santana still had smudges on the side of her hand from the felt tip pen she had used to write that note. She'd opted for blue ballpoint to compose the others.

"I saw you sneaking this into Quinn's locker," Sue said, the paper poised between her index and middle fingers. "After the ones you put in Rachel's and Brittany's. You're lucky I keep tabs on all my girls' locker combinations, whether they're still on the squad or not."

Mouth agape, Santana glanced back and forth from Sue to the note several times before finding her voice. "Oh, my God," she said, only astonished at first. But then, as the woman's words sunk in: "Oh, my fu— Are you fucking kidding me? You broke into her locker and read a private letter that's none of your goddamn business? Jesus Christ, I knew you were a crazy old bitch, but I didn't think you were a fucking stalker. What gives you the right—"

"Save it. I only read the last line." Sue held out her hand, offering the note over. "That was plenty."

Snatching up the paper, Santana shoved it into her pocket, alongside the letter to her parents. "You shouldn't have read any of it. I mean, seriously, what is your damage? You're like some... skeezy pedophile following me around in the shadows. I bet that's why you became a cheerleading coach, isn't it? So you could spend time with underage girls, get your rocks off watching them undress in the locker room, pretend it's just an accident when you feel them up during practice. I always did think you were a little too eager to help with the hammy stretches. What's the matter, hard time finding a date with someone your own age who didn't mistake you for the offspring of Randy and Evi Quaid? Or just scare too many guys away with the gremlin you got living down there?" She pointed to her lap and tilted her head in mock sympathy. "You know, you're not supposed to feed that thing after midnight. I guess getting it wet and exposing it to light hasn't been a problem for you, though."

"Are you finished?" Sue tapped her foot, fingers drumming impatiently against her crossed arms.

Breathless from the rant and frustrated that it hadn't gotten a stronger reaction, Santana scowled hatefully up at Sue, her chest heaving. Never in her life had she wanted to hurt someone so much as this oversized, overbearing busybody. This self-important asshole who had no respect for privacy and kept showing up when Santana was at her most vulnerable, every ounce of dignity stripped away. Years ago she had learned how to get beneath people's skin with elaborate insults that confused them, left them feeling too stupid to respond. But with Sue she would have to keep it plain and simple. Playtime was over. "Fuck you," she said loudly, sweeping the leftover pills into her dominant hand and flinging them at Sue. She pushed to her knees, grabbing for the pillbox, the thermos and its caps, a handful of dirt; she hurled them one by one, growing angrier as each missed its target. When she had run out of objects to throw, she launched obscenities instead, calling Sue every filthy name she could think of, her voice escalating to a scream. And when that gave out as well, she was ready to pitch herself at Sue next. "I hate your fucking guts, you ugly old bitch. You stupid cunt. I hope you burn in hell," she rasped, planting both hands on the ground and trying to shove to her feet. Pain ripped through her right arm the moment she applied pressure. With a sharp cry, she dropped onto her side and curled the limb protectively towards her middle. But it wasn't concern for the injury that made her heart clutch up in fear as she lay there—it was the tall figure suddenly standing over her, the large hands reaching out to cause unspeakable torment.

"No!" she shrieked, swinging her fist at the face above. "Don't!"

"Santana, I'm not—"

Before the sentence could conclude, Santana landed a solid blow, her knuckles connecting with cheekbone and the eye socket above it. She clambered onto her knees and kept punching blindly, hitting only air at first. But as two arms closed around her in a firm embrace, she beat on the chest she had been drawn into. She pummeled it until the arms won, restricting her movement as she wore herself out fighting against them. Grasping at one of the sleeves, she gave it a feeble tug and began to cry bitter, defeated tears. It was then that she saw the stripes running up the sleeve in her hand and recognized the track jacket they belonged to. Sinking against it, she hid her face in the collar and sobbed weakly as Sue murmured comforting words and stroked her hair. After a while, she asked in a broken whisper, "Why couldn't you just let me do it?"

"Because this is not how it's supposed to end for you." Sue eased back a little, her palm cupped behind Santana's head as she looked down solemnly. "You are worth more than this. Don't you even fucking _think _about throwing your life away for that bunch of assholes," she said, and shook Santana lightly by the shoulder, driving the message home. "I know it hurts like hell, but you are going to pick yourself up off this ground and keep going. If not for yourself, then for the people who love you. And to show those nasty fuckers how tough you really are."

"But I'm not. I'm so tired." Santana sniffled and tried to bury her face in the jacket collar again, but Sue held her at bay. "I don't know how to fight anymore," she insisted.

"Bull. Just look at my face."

Santana glanced up at Sue's bloodshot eye, which had already begun to swell, moisture trickling from one corner. She quickly averted her gaze and nudged Sue away with her elbow, sitting back on her heels when she was released. "I don't mean like that."

"Maybe not." Sue mimicked the posture as she surveyed the nearby wreckage, including the fire that had dwindled down to a few scattered patches, not much higher than Bunsen burner flames. "But it's a start."

Santana swiped at her eyes and runny nose, bemused as she took in the mess. She barely remembered making most of it. When she tried to replay the scene in her mind, the finer details eluded her, staying just beyond reach, like fragments of a dream. She gave up the effort, too exhausted to care. "What?" she asked wanly.

"It's time you and I had a serious talk." Sue gathered the pills that were strewn on the ground in a connect-the-dots pattern and let the dirt sift between her fingers. She turned her hand over and opened it, revealing the dusty white and blue tablets heaped in her palm. "Besides the loogie and the ones you pelted me with, is this all of them?"

Unsure of where the question was leading, Santana hesitated to answer. So far, Sue seemed oddly unfazed by the whole situation. But then, she never had been easy to figure out, her moods and quirks as random as the threats she used to keep her Cheerios in line. Perhaps she wanted to get the full story before calling the police to report an arson and assault. Or maybe she just wanted to get her kicks by humiliating Santana even more. Most likely it was the latter option.

"We can talk in my office or we can talk at the hospital," Sue said, pocketing the drugs. "Up to you."

"I took a couple and threw them up," Santana muttered as she feigned interest in her fingernails. She had never been a nail-bitter until she started smoking. Now the once-sculpted tips were jagged and chewed down to the nub, the cuticles raw and frayed. Taking pity on their neglected appearance, Quinn had slathered them in black polish the weekend before. Beneath the chipped paint, Santana spotted a crescent of dirt trapped under each nail. She tucked them into her palms and focused on Sue, who cast her a scrutinizing look. She sighed and rolled her eyes. "And then I swallowed two more. That's it, I swear. I don't need to go to the emergency room over two fucking pills. I'll just be tired and groggy, so if you have something to say, spit it out before I fall asleep."

Sue had plenty to say, judging by the quirked eyebrow and pursed lips. She clapped both hands against her knees and stood up, beckoning for Santana to follow. "Come on, then."

"I need my sling," Santana said grudgingly, and shuffled over to the support that still lay twisted on top of her book bag. Cutting sidelong glances at Sue, she crammed Howard into the bottom of the bag and swore under her breath at the sling as she attempted to shake the tangles loose. Finally, she gave in and thrust it at Sue's outstretched hand. Heat crept up her neck as she watched the woman straighten it simply by turning the strap. She kept her eyes lowered as Sue knelt down and looped the strap around her, helping to situate her arm inside the cuff and fasten it.

"Do you need to have it looked at?" Sue's tone was gentle, along with a small touch she placed on the bound arm.

Fighting back the urge to cry, Santana shook her head. "I'm okay." But the moment she said it, the sound of her own stuffy voice broke her resolve. Hurriedly she brushed at the tears on her cheeks and reached for her bag, hugging it close. "It's just sore. Can we go?"

"Yeah."

Once Sue had gotten them both on their feet, snuffed out the fire, and collected the items she'd had to dodge minutes earlier, Santana followed alongside her old coach, heading back towards the school building she had believed she would never enter again.

xxx

Sue plowed her fist into the instant ice pack with a bit more force than necessary, rubbed it vigorously between her palms and handed it across the desk to Santana. If the girl's knuckles ached half as much as the entire right side of Sue's face, the compress would do her some good. For a flyweight, she packed a hell of a wallop. Good aim, too. Sue hadn't been socked in the eye or spat on that way since her days in the foster care system, and most of those encounters were with kids twice her size. That all changed when she had her growth spurt; since then, few dared to take her on quite like Santana just did. To an extent, Sue approved. It was good to see that the girl hadn't lost her spunk, even if she'd convinced herself otherwise. When Sue had rounded the corner on her way to tack another protest sign to Shannon Beiste's office door, she knew something was amiss the moment she spotted Santana trailing through the abandoned hall. True, it was strange for the girl to be there when everyone else had long since fled like a bat out of hell. And stranger yet to see her drift from Rachel Berry's locker to Brittany's and Quinn's, putting such consideration into how she deposited a note in each. But it was the subtle shift in the girl's demeanor—if Sue didn't know better, she would have called it an aura—that had been most worrisome. She looked absolutely spectral gliding along in her shroud of dark clothing. She looked like someone not quite grounded to this earth.

Calling out to her would be dangerous, Sue thought. Like waking a sleepwalker. So she had lurked in the shadows as if she were a skeezy pedophile and bolted straight for Quinn's locker when the girl was out of sight. By the time Sue found the combination stored in her phone, nearly tore the door off its hinges getting it open and read the postscript scrawled on yellow notebook paper, confirming her fears, Santana managed to steal halfway across campus. It took Sue five hair-raising minutes to track her down. On the verge of contacting the police, she spied a purple flash beneath the bleachers, the last place she would have ever thought to look. How Santana even made it inside the padlocked fence was a mystery; Sue had to scold herself for wondering if she actually was seeing an apparition. Real or not, she hadn't wanted to risk scaring the girl off or breaking her own neck trying to scale the fence. She hung back only long enough to see Santana methodically emptying the book bag, then sprinted for her office, grabbed her copy of the groundskeeper's key and dashed for the gate it unlocked. She almost passed out running from one side of the football field to the other, but she had done it—she stopped the girl from making a stupid and reckless mistake. And for her troubles, she received a shiner and a throbbing chest. It was her own fault for getting too close, but she had been afraid Santana would harm herself with all that thrashing.

It awakened a host of unpleasant memories, that little scuffle under the bleachers. So had most of the past three weeks, in all their shitty glory. Though Sue was ashamed to admit it, she now realized she'd been avoiding this very confrontation with Santana. Too painful. She let herself get comfortable keeping vigil over the girl from afar, believing she had already done everything in her power to help. That cowardice had almost cost them dearly.

She pulled another instant ice pack from the bottom drawer of her desk, punched it and covered her swollen eyelid, wincing. Quickly, before she could lose courage again, she removed the Polaroid from a top drawer and slid it over to Santana. The girl eyed it without picking it up. Confusion flitted across her face, or at least what was visible of it behind the heavy black makeup, the metal and that punk hairdo. She studied the lankier blonde in the picture—the one posing like a discotheque diva—then sat back in her chair and glanced at Sue, head tilted at a slight angle.

"Yeah," Sue said. "Me and Jean. Summer of '71. She was twelve, and I had just turned ten. The skates were a birthday present. Hand-me-downs, but we didn't care about that. We practically lived in those things. Think I wore mine to bed once." A faint smile, more habitual than sentimental, touched her lips as she reached for the photograph. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to Jean's face before turning it down on the desk and resting her hand on top. When she looked up, Santana was watching her with intent brown eyes—both of them. "Our parents were off gallivanting around Europe. Much too busy to have us tagging along, so they left us with our aunt and uncle. My father's sister and her husband. Sara was her name... and he was Harvey."

Sue took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping to calm her frantic pulse. Her heart continued to palpitate as if she had just drank several cups of coffee. Stalling for a moment, she resituated the ice pack. She began to understand the appeal of bangs that draped across the eye and prevented others from seeing in. "Aunt Sara was a very ki—" Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat softly. "A very kind woman. She did the best she could for us, but she was always ill. More often than not we had to look out for ourselves. And then that fall her health took a turn, and she had to be admitted to the hospital. Cancer."

A shadow darkened Santana's features, her steady gaze dropping to the ice pack resting on her knuckles. She kept it there for a while as she listened.

"Things were okay at first. Jean and I had no idea she wouldn't be coming home. We kept waiting for her, thinking... but school had started, so time went by faster. For me at least. Don't believe any of that crap about the good old days. Kids were just as cruel back then as they are now. The year before, they tormented Jean so bad she had an accident on the playground. Called her Diaper Jeans after that." Sue clenched a fist against the photograph. She hadn't said that nickname out loud in years. It left a bitter taste in her mouth. "Finally my parents took her out of school altogether. But my big sister loved to learn, and I was determined she should know as much as I did. The rest of that year, I came home and taught her everything I'd learned that day in class. I don't care what anybody says, she goddamn remembered it."

She brought her fist down hard on the Polaroid, instantly regretting it when Santana started. Sue pushed her seat back, putting some distance between them, and tucked her hand beneath the opposite arm. But now that she had moved, she couldn't stay still. She would prefer to be standing for this next part, anyway. Getting to her feet, she began pacing the length of her desk.

"I kept tutoring her the next year at Aunt Sara and Uncle Harvey's, too. Every day, first thing after I got off the bus. She waited for me on the front steps, that's how eager she was. Silly kid didn't even know you're supposed to hate school at that age." Sue tried to chuckle, but a lump formed in her throat and the noise came out strangled. She bit her bottom lip, swallowing several times before she could continue. "One day, towards the middle of November... so, right around this time, come to think—... She wasn't there on the steps that day. I thought it had gotten too cold and she'd gone inside, but I couldn't find her in any of the usual places when I looked. I was about to go check next door. Sometimes Uncle Harvey sent her over there when he had a lot of work in the garage. But then I hear these voices coming from my aunt and uncle's bedroom. And I think, well, maybe Aunt Sara is finally home, you know? And being a dumb kid, I just go busting into the room, excited to see her. But instead, I see Harvey in the bed with my— with—"

Finding it difficult to breathe, Sue peeled the compress away from her eye and clutched it to the stabbing pain in her chest. This must be what a heart attack felt like. She gripped the edge of the desk for support, hunching forward as if she were about to vomit; the words spilled out in a similar manner: "He had Jean in the bed with him. She was just a baby. Didn't know any better. I didn't see much, but it was enough. Harvey jumped up and wrapped the sheets around himself. Walked right over and slapped the hell out of me because I didn't knock. Slammed the door. He sent Jeanie out right after. She didn't know anything was wrong. She couldn't comprehend... to this day, I'm not sure of everything he did to her."

Throat constricting, Sue choked back the sob that attempted to escape and forced herself to stand upright, shoulders straight, chin raised. She didn't want to go on, but there was no turning back now. She had gotten this far, and by God, she would finish if it killed her. Part of her believed it might. "Have a pretty good idea though, because after that... incident we struck up a little deal, Harvey and me. I got him to agree that he'd leave Jean alone by offering to fill her place. Took some persuasion, of course. But if he didn't hurt Jeanie anymore, I promised I wouldn't tell and he could do whatever he wanted to me." Sue gave the ice pack a few light tosses into the air, then turned and pitched it underhand onto her empty seat. She glanced sideways at Santana, through the eye that wasn't swollen, and confided in a low, heavy tone, "And he did."

Santana blinked slowly, her thick lashes reluctant to separate from each other. She was either getting extremely tired or extremely bored. Her gaze arced over to the trophy case and stayed there, scanning the numerous awards that were lined up in perfect order, no more than an inch of space between them, on every shelf, as she asked, "How long?"

"A couple of months. Give or take."

"Jesus."

Sue hummed agreement, letting her vision drift out of focus as sights and sounds she hadn't thought about—hadn't permitted herself to think about—in years began to surface. She clamped a hand over her mouth and nose, the scent of motor oil masked by three generous dabs of Old Spice suddenly engulfing her nostrils, coming out through her sinuses rather than going in like normal smells. Oh God, it was on her skin and clothes too. In the back of her throat she tasted something unidentifiable, but it was the reason she had never been able to stomach sushi. She was about to excuse herself and rush to the nearest toilet stall when, from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Santana rooting through her book bag and extending her arm, a pack of cigarettes at the ready. The girl brandished the Lucky Strikes insistently when they received a skeptical look. Sue hadn't smoked since the early '90s, after Jean watched a television program about the associated health risks and begged her to give up the habit. It caused _Cancer_, Jean had informed her, eyes wide and fearful.

Praying for her big sister's forgiveness, Sue pinched a cigarette from the pack and nodded as Santana followed suit, eyebrow cocked. The girl brought the cigarette to her lips, lit it with a lighter from her pocket, then held the flame out for Sue. They smoked in silence for a while, until Sue's hands were steady enough to pick a miniature loving cup trophy from the assortment on top of the file cabinet. She placed it on the desk in front of Santana, who was searching for a place to discard ashes. Sue tapped hers into the trash and leaned a hip against the desk, proceeding carefully, voice wavering: "Aunt Sara died towards the end of January. My parents couldn't be contacted and Harvey wasn't blood relation. I'm sure he would have gone on raising us, being the devoted uncle that he was... but children's services got involved. Long story short, we ended up in foster care for about six months. Thought it would be better. It wasn't. They kept splitting me and Jean up." She blew a forceful stream of smoke and shook her head. "Lousy bastards. But at least I knew she was safe from Harvey. And I spent the rest of her life making damn sure no one else ever hurt her like that again."

Sue took a long drag on the cigarette, her gaze locked on Santana. And damned if she wasn't nervous about the girl's reaction. She tipped her head and exhaled upwards from one side of her mouth, buying herself some time. Finally, she said, "Never told that story to anybody before."

Chin resting on her palm, the cigarette suspended between her index and middle finger, Santana was gnawing at her pinky fingernail. She pulled it back suddenly, the pensive look on her face turning to disgust as she brushed something off the tip of her tongue. "Shit," she muttered around the filter she dangled from her lips. Inhaling deeply, she released the smoke through her nostrils, then resumed using the Lucky Strike as a prop rather than savoring it. When she spoke, her tone didn't quite match the indifferent wording she chose. "I don't get what this has to do with me. You think because some perverts used us both as fuck toys that we're part of, like, a sisterhood now? You watch too much LMN. I mean, it sucks that happened to you and your sister. But what's the point of telling me? All it does is prove what a sick fucking world this is, and that I'm tired of living in it."

Sue sighed and flicked some ashes into the trashcan. Of course Santana wouldn't make this easy. Good for her. "I'm telling you because I've been where you are right now. Hating myself for something that wasn't my fault. Doing everything I could to forget. I wanted to die too, Santana. Probably would've tried the same thing you did, if not for Jean. I had to stick around because I knew she needed me."

"What if..." Santana sat forward and tapped her cigarette on the rim of the trophy cup. She remained bent over, her elbow against her knee, shoulders sagging. When she looked up at Sue, her face was far too haggard to belong to someone so young. "What if I don't have anybody like that?"

"Then you find whatever it is that will get you through this, and you hang on with all you've got. And you stay, because it _is_ possible to get your life back." As she spoke, Sue jabbed the desktop with the two fingers holding her cigarette, then pointed them at herself. Maybe not the best example of a well-adjusted individual, but at least it proved that total self-destruction wasn't the only option. "It may not be the life you expected or wanted, but it's sure as hell better than nothing."

A tear slipped into the crease alongside Santana's nose, and she let it linger as if she hadn't felt it fall. Crying was second nature to her now, it seemed. "I just don't know how to get past it. How'm I supposed to move on when it doesn't feel like it's ever going to be over? It never even happened, as far as some people are concerned. The guys are still out there. And Lee..." Shuddering as the name left her lips, she closed her eyes long enough for two more black tears to slide down either cheek and meet beneath her chin. "He's never gonna let me go," she whispered.

Sue was on her feet at once. "Has he tried something else with you?" She gazed down worriedly, her hand on the back of Santana's chair. "What did that son of a bitch—"

"No. He didn't."

"Santana."

"I said he didn't, okay?"

Though the girl's tone was adamant, she wouldn't make eye contact. She made herself smaller in the chair, retreating into that defensive shell from which she had almost been drawn out. Sue could tell that the trust she had established was about to be lost. Going after one of the folding chairs that stood against the wall, she opened it up next to Santana and took a seat, putting herself at the girl's level. She leaned back and crossed her ankles, watching the tip of her cigarette smolder as she debated whether or not to say what she had in mind. She thought about what it had been like to find Santana under the bleachers that morning, bruised, bloodied, so damaged she was as unsteady on her legs as a newborn fawn; to sit at her bedside and hear the whimpers she tried to suppress, even though the doctor had a gentle touch; to see each of the boys who had hurt her talking and laughing with friends before they were taken into police custody for a few hours, then sent on their merry way. She thought about the smug little grin Lee had been wearing today. And she thought about Jean.

"I didn't tell you the whole story," she said after a moment. "I wasn't sure you should hear it, but maybe it'll do you some good. If you really listen."

Still looking straight ahead, Santana blew a puff of smoke in Sue's direction.

_Close enough_.

"When my parents finally remembered they had two kids waiting for them back in the states, they showed up and got me and Jeanie out of foster care. Pretended it was all just a funny mix-up, and we were one big, happy family again. They'd even brought home a bunch of presents for us, to make up for the birthdays and holidays they missed. One of mine was a Luger." Sue waited, lips twitching upwards at the corner when Santana's hand paused as it lifted the cigarette to her mouth. "It's a German pistol. You know, like the Nazis carry in the movies."

Santana snorted. "Your parents gave you a Nazi gun when you were ten years old? That's fucked."

"Mm-hmm. To be fair, my dad did tell me I couldn't actually have it until I was eighteen." Sue smiled and rolled the Lucky Strike filter between her fingers. There was enough left for one more drag, which she took in slowly before gesturing for Santana's cigarette butt and stubbing both out against the sole of her cross trainer. She deposited them in the loving cup and brushed her hands together. "Also told me there was one bullet in it that I could use however I wanted. I spent a lot of time thinking about that gun over the next eight years. And the bullet. And every time, I ended up at the same conclusion."

Gradually, Santana's head turned, her dark eyes fastened on Sue. She fiddled with the ring in her lip, tongue grazing over the silver ball. Then, almost imperceptibly, she let it toy with a question that burned so brightly from within, even her irises changed to russet brown: "Harvey?"

Sue tipped her head just once. "I never really felt free of him, even though I hadn't seen him in years. All that time I'd been dragging around the guilt and shame of what he did to me. To Jean. Meanwhile, he didn't have to suffer a bit. I couldn't find peace until he paid for all that he'd taken from us. Until _I_ made him pay. So, a few months after my eighteenth birthday, I went looking for him in that little clapboard house in Indiana. I was going to walk up, knock on the door and point the gun right in his face. Maybe I would've given him the choice to turn himself in..." She shrugged. "Maybe not. But I didn't get the chance to find out, because the woman who opened the door told me that he had died a year earlier. Heart attack."

Santana let out the breath she'd been holding, the tension draining from her shoulders. She slumped down in her chair, frowning.

"Not what you were expecting? Me either. I was so angry, I went to the cemetery and screamed at the bastard's grave for half an hour. I tried to kick over his headstone, and when that didn't work, I shot the ground right above the place where I thought his heart might be. Then I drove away and never looked back."

They sat in silence for a minute or two, both processing the rest of the tale. To Sue, who had never heard the words out loud herself, it sounded like somebody else's past she had described, and she needed to digest it just as much as Santana did. She was surprised by how good it felt to get off her chest. At eighteen, she hadn't believed she could ever share those memories with anyone. Her parents would have dismissed the accusations against Harvey as hogwash, their favorite response to every trouble—big or small—Sue had gone to them with over the years. Most people would think she was insane if she told them about the gun. But she saw in Santana the same desperation, the same anguish and fury, that had compelled her to the graveyard all those years ago, a Luger tucked inside her waistband. And for the first time since they had met, Santana didn't look like she thought Sue was crazy.

"So, did it work?"

Sue furrowed her brow. "Hm?"

"Did it bring you any peace?"

"Not like I hoped it would. But did I feel better knowing he was rotting in the ground and couldn't hurt me or my sister anymore? You're damn right I did." Sue gave a meaningful nod and let the weight of the answer settle over them. Squinting, she searched the girl's face carefully. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say here?"

Santana had drifted further down in the seat, her head resting on the back of the chair, eyelids getting heavier. She struggled to keep them apart as she gazed up with uncertainty. Right then she looked like a confused little girl, and again Sue questioned whether or not to continue. But it was for that very reason she knew she must go on—confused little girls required guidance.

"I'm saying..." Sue scooted her chair around, propped both elbows on her knees and leaned forward to talk directly to Santana. "I'm saying there are a lot of ways to get justice. And if that's what you need to feel whole again, or even just to feel safe, then you get it any goddamn way you know how. I'm saying sometimes you have to be a cold-hearted bitch to survive in this world. Some people don't leave you any other choice." She tapped her knuckle lightly on Santana's knee. "And I'm saying I'll be here for you no matter what you decide to do. But that does not include killing yourself. Got it?"

It took a while, but Santana eventually responded with a tentative nod. Though drowsy, her eyes never strayed from Sue's.

"Good." Sue gave the girl's knee an awkward pat and sat back, digging for the cell phone in her pants pocket. "Now, which one of your parents should I call to pick you up?"

"Neither." And when Sue started to object, Santana hurried to add, "I don't want them to know about this. Please. We got into a huge fight last night. It was bad. If they find out what I did, it'll just make everything so much worse."

"I have to call someone. There's a mess under the bleachers I still have to clean up, and you're in no condition to go home by yourself. Besides, you shouldn't be alone right now. Someone needs to stay with you for a while. Someone who knows what happened."

Santana fretted her bottom lip, lost in thought for only a second. "Call Quinn," she said in a rapid, imploring tone. "We were planning a sleepover at her house tomorrow anyway. I'll call my parents and tell them I'm staying there tonight too. Please, Coach Sylvester. It's too messed up at home. I can't... I can't breathe there."

Sue knew that feeling all too well. And though she doubted Santana's family was anything like her own, she knew better than anyone that parents often did more harm than good. It wouldn't help the girl to be sent from one crisis right back into another. Quinn was a suitable alternative. Sue had been glad to see the girls roaming the halls of McKinley together in recent weeks, even if half the time it was while they should have been in class. She didn't care for their drastic changes in appearance or their decision to quit Cheerios, but she still considered them her two best girls—and probably always would. After overhearing Martin Hughes, the perpetually sleepy history instructor, describing to the crowded teachers' lounge the sound Karofsky's nose made when Quinn smashed it with a lunch tray, Sue had gotten a glimpse of what it must feel like to be a proud mother. Yes, if anyone could watch over Santana with the same fierce dedication as Sue herself, it would be Quinn Fabray.

"All right," Sue agreed, getting to her feet. She preferred to stand while she spoke on the phone, believing it gave her voice more authority. "I'll call Fabray."

"Thanks."

"Mm."

When Sue glanced up from scrolling through her contacts list, Santana had pulled the empty folding chair closer and was preparing to bed down, book bag plumped under her head. Sue motioned for her to have a seat in the larger, more comfortable swivel chair behind the desk. Santana regarded it with apprehension at first, but by the time Sue had found Quinn's number, the girl was fast asleep in the chair, arm curled beneath her head on the desktop. As the phone rang, Sue quietly moved to Santana's side and rested a hand on her back, ensuring there was a steady rise and fall of breath. She continued to stand guard when Quinn answered on the fifth ring.

"Q. Sue Sylvester. I've got a situation here."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Thanks for reading chapter 9, everyone. I'm sorry this one's a little bit shorter than usual. It was supposed to just be a scene in a longer chapter, but then it got too long and I split it into two chapters. The next one will be longer than this, I promise. **lovecanbesostrange: **Funny you should mention the nicknames. One of my biggest pet peeves in fanfiction is characters being called by a nickname you never hear on the show. I even hesitated with the nicknames I used in the letters, but eventually I gave in since Santana did call herself Auntie Tana once. And I just love the Q thing. Again, thank you for the insightful reviews! They give me lots of feelings. **ClawingAtTheSurface:** Actually, I did bawl my eyes out over the letters. I sat there writing and crying like Diane Keaton in _Something's Gotta Give_. First time I've ever reacted like that while writing fiction. But oddly enough, the letters were the easiest part of the chapter to write. Thanks for reviewing. **Gypsy Babe:** I agree that Lee's the most despicable of the guys, even though I think they all suck, lol. I created him with that intention. And it's funny you said that about Sebastian, because he reminded me of Lee in the "Michael" episode too. Personality-wise, anyway. Looks-wise, I picture Lee Pace; don't ask me why sweet and shy Ned from _Pushing Daisies_ popped into my head when I was trying to envision a bigoted rapist... (well, okay, it's because of his role in the movie _Possession_. He was a creep in that one.) And I'm rambling. Thanks for reviewing! **SadPanda13:** Wish I could say the writer's block had passed, but that chapter was written before the block got really ugly, lol. Thanks, though. :) **threeltlbirds:** Thank you for the review. I realize that the rules might require Sue to inform someone about the suicide attempt, but we're talking about Sue here. She pretty much does her own thing, regardless of the rules. She's also arrogant enough to believe that she's going to get through to Santana better than anyone else could. And Santana didn't turn the video in because she was prepared to die and wouldn't have stopped to give it to someone else. That wouldn't be the memory she wanted to leave people with.

And speaking of leaving memories. **(spoiler alert)** I'm a little worried about tonight's episode and what's going to happen with Quinn. I debated on whether to post this chapter before or after the episode so it didn't turn out to be some kind of premonition. Not sure I made the right decision, but at least this way I can suggest we form a fanfiction!prayer circle for our Quinnie. I don't really believe they'd kill her off, but you never know with this show. Ugh. Hopefully I'm not jinxing it. Here we go.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TEN<strong>

* * *

><p><em>By the way, I think you'll be a great mom someday. <em>

Quinn reread the line for what must have been the fifteenth or twentieth time. She had pored over the entire note repeatedly, but it was that brief afterthought near the bottom which drew her eye again and again. Few people had the courage to discuss with her the baby girl she'd given up for adoption. Her own mother wanted to sweep the memory of Beth under the rug. Whenever her biological granddaughter's name was mentioned, Judy Fabray would stiffen, that phony smile plastered on her collagen-filled lips, French tipped nails threatening to shoot off and put an eye out as she clutched her bourbon glass in a death grip. She inevitably remembered some charming anecdote overheard at the salon or during bridge club, and it became absolutely necessary for her to regale Quinn with the story before it slipped her mind. In the end, Beth was always the one forgotten. People at school weren't much different, either. Though all of Quinn's closest friends had been there when she went into labor, had even gone along to the hospital and visited postpartum, most of them were uncomfortable with the topic afterwards. Nobody knew quite what to say about the little pink bundle that had left the nursery not in its mother's arms but Shelby Corcoran's.

Nobody except for Santana. And it wasn't so much what she said as it was the way she listened, allowing Quinn to bare her heart and soul without fear of judgment. At first, it had felt strange confiding in the girl she once considered the least trustworthy of her friends—or frenemies. But now she found herself compelled to tell Santana everything, every last detail, no matter how personal, nor how dark and twisted it might have seemed inside her head. One minute she could daydream aloud about what Beth was like (_Did she still have fair hair? Emerald eyes? Bouncy curls, like the ones in Quinn's baby book? Was she talking yet? Walking? She was almost eighteen months old, surely she was walking_), the next she could confess her biggest wish (_I should have kept her_) and her wildest (_I want to find them and kidnap her_). Nothing was off limits because there was nothing Quinn could say to shock or horrify Santana, who had the deepest, darkest secrets of them all. She shared them just as openly with Quinn, or so it had appeared, until yesterday. The statements she made while puffing away on Lucky Strikes and nibbling at her fingernails ranged from heartbreaking (_"I miss my dad's laugh"_) to morbid (_"I wonder what they would have done to me if Karofsky hadn't choked me unconscious"_), but one thing was certain: the conversation was never dull. Quinn had started waking up eager to get to school each morning because Santana would be there. She had blown off the Skanks for the past two weeks in favor of her daily smoking and therapy sessions with Dr. Santana Lopez, Ph.D.

Somewhere along the line, Santana had become Quinn's best friend. It went beyond their ability to tell each other anything. For the first time in her life, Quinn felt needed by someone. Neither of her parents ever made her feel that way. Before the nose job and weight loss, she had mostly been an embarrassment to them, unlike her effortlessly bright and beautiful older sister, Francesca. Then, after slimming down and prettying up, she had climbed her way to the top of the social ladder, only to discover that it was even lonelier there than at the bottom. Everyone wanted to be friends with her image, her status, but not with Quinn Fabray. Finn had never loved her, not really. Puck just enjoyed the idea of bagging another Cheerio. And Sam, though sweet, didn't have the emotional maturity to handle a mess like her—eventually, she would have eaten him alive. These days there was no benefit in being associated with Quinn, and yet Santana continued to pursue their friendship. Since that night in the Berrys' basement, the girl had latched on to her—literally—and not let go. It was a good feeling, to be needed. She knew better than to exploit it. She'd been through that too many times herself, and she had no intentions of putting Santana through it as well. Besides that, the dependency was mutual. Perhaps giving birth had awakened some maternal instinct that required an outlet, but Quinn had the strong urge to protect Santana. Despite what she said to the contrary, she liked taking care of the girl.

The kiss had complicated things, of course. It opened up possibilities Quinn hadn't thought about before. Back when she was head Cheerio and full-time Jesus Freak, she wouldn't have dreamed of allowing a girl to kiss her, let alone feeling an attraction if one did. She'd made out with Mack due to sheer boredom, drunkenness, and rebellion. But the kiss from Santana had been... interesting. Quinn sensed it coming before it happened, saw it in the magnetic brown eyes that looked at her as if she were still beautiful, in spite of her efforts not to be. For a second, she desired nothing more than to have Santana's lips pressed to hers, but the moment they were, common sense took over. She knew from experience where alcohol mixed with insecurity could lead, and Santana wasn't prepared for that. Someday she would be ready, though, and Quinn couldn't help but wonder what might happen then. What would it be like to have a relationship with someone who had no ulterior motives for being with her; who didn't want her only because she belonged to someone else, or because she was perfect on the outside, or because she was knocked up; who just wanted to be with _her_? It was a thrilling prospect, which she'd begun to daydream about more and more. Physical attraction wouldn't be a problem, either. Santana was gorgeous, always had been—even when they were both supposedly straight, Quinn noticed that. And now the girl's seductive charm had been replaced by a fragility that was almost as inviting. She needed to be handled gently, lovingly. Quinn was a little ashamed that the quality appealed to her so much, but at least she hadn't taken advantage of it. For now, she had contented herself with snuggling into bed beside Santana when requested, hoping each time that the girl would reach down and take her hand.

Yesterday, one short phone call from Sue Sylvester brought it all crashing down. Santana had attempted suicide. Pills. This sassy, bold, razor-tongued girl who never used to let people push her around had walked beneath the McKinley High bleachers to die, all alone out in the cold once again. Quinn didn't understand how she had missed the signs. She kept replaying in her mind their conversations from the previous days, searching for any hints Santana might have dropped about her plans. During the past week, she had seemed melancholy, but that wasn't unusual anymore. And then yesterday, it was odd to see her in an almost upbeat mood, especially after the news about Lee's pretrial. Quinn wanted to bash in more than just the guy's face, and she had spent most of the day fantasizing how she would bump him off, if given the chance; her favorite method involved trapping him in the locker room showers, releasing a toxic nerve agent and watching him writhe in agony as he bled from every orifice. But Santana had been so calm, practically relieved. Why hadn't Quinn realized something was seriously wrong? She should have pressed harder with her questions, should have confirmed that Brittany was giving the girl a ride home. The prediction in Santana's note had been correct: Quinn was pissed off. But most of her anger was directed inward. She had failed to protect her friend. And, yet again, someone she cared for deeply had tried to leave her.

Why did _everyone_ want to leave her?

She read the note one last time, the smudged ink becoming illegible as her eyes filled with tears. At the sound of rustling behind her, she blinked rapidly and turned from the computer desk to see a tousled jet black and purple-streaked head poking out of the bedcovers. Santana sat up enough to peer over the comforter, one eye scrunched shut as she looked around the room in confusion. Her gaze traveled across the collage of heavy metal band posters that were taped to the walls, concealing the pink floral designs underneath, and finally landed on Quinn, seated a few feet away in the desk chair. It took her a while to pry the other eyelid open and focus, her full lips jutting into a sleepy pout. "Hey," she said thickly.

"Hey," said Quinn. For once, she was glad her voice had a natural snuffle in it.

Santana struggled to sit forward, lethargy slowing her movements. Grimacing, she rolled her neck and shoulder until one or the other popped, then she slouched down with a sigh, half-hidden behind the puffy comforter gathered in her lap. "What time is it?"

Quinn glanced back at the clock on her computer screen. "Five after ten."

"Oh. Great. Now I'll be wide awake all night. There goes resting up for school tomorrow."

"No, 10 A.M., not P.M.," Quinn said softly. "It's already tomorrow."

Santana stared for a moment, her blank expression gradually turning to disbelief as it dawned on her that she had been asleep nearly seventeen hours straight. After Quinn had guided the drowsy girl from the school building to her car the evening before, she was given strict orders from Sue to rouse Santana every once in while and to monitor her breathing, in case she had lied about the number of pills she took. Sue also made Quinn promise not to leave Santana alone for any significant amount of time and to call immediately if there were a problem. Quinn had followed each instruction to the letter, barely getting any rest herself as she lay awake half the night, watching the rise and fall of Santana's chest beneath the blanket. By then, it would have been safe to just let her sleep, but Quinn was afraid to close her own eyes. She was afraid Santana wouldn't be there when she opened them again.

"Holy shit. Why didn't you wake me up for school?" Santana asked.

"Figured you could use the rest."

"Why didn't you go?"

Quinn arched her eyebrow, unable to resist a light, sarcastic shrug. "Guess."

Fingers combing through the jagged part in her hair, Santana raked the strands backwards on top of her head. Since the makeover, she had been constantly at war with that long slant of bangs. As usual, they won, tumbling into her face again when she released them. She gave up the fight, hanging her head and gazing down at the scrapes on her knuckles. "How much did she tell you?"

"Said she caught you under the bleachers with a thermos of booze and a shitload of pills," Quinn paraphrased. Honestly, the coach hadn't been very forthcoming with much information beyond that. Her agitation and the ripening bruise on her right eye made it clear there was more to the story, but Quinn hadn't asked questions. When Sue Sylvester was that hyped up, you didn't talk—you listened. After Quinn's arrival at the school, Sue spent five minutes barking commands at her outside the office door. But the woman was gentler—tender almost—than Quinn had ever seen her when she shook Santana from sleep, helped her up from the desk chair and handed her over with the reluctance of a mother sending a child off to the first day of preschool. At that moment, Quinn realized just how close she had come to losing her friend. Then she'd read the note, which left no question in her mind that Santana had meant business. She reached for it now, holding it out for the girl to see. "You filled me in from there."

Santana gave an indignant huff and flopped her hand onto the blanket. "She showed it to you?"

"It fell out of your pocket when I helped you get changed," Quinn said, gesturing to the hoodie and jeans piled on the divan in the corner. Santana's cheeks flared as she glanced down at the oversized shirt—Quinn's favorite, a vintage Runaways tee with the sizzling cherry bomb logo—and the Batman boxers she was wearing, and Quinn hastened to add, "I asked if you wanted pajamas, and you did. You were pretty out of it, so I just kind of handed you stuff and helped with the sling. Anyway. The notes dropped on the floor, and I saw the Q... I thought..." She cast a guilty look at the paper, folded it back up and placed it on the desk. Besides curiosity, she had no excuse.

"Did you read both of them?"

"No." Quinn shook her head quickly. "I didn't know who the other was for—"

"Oh, God." Santana threw the comforter aside and folded both legs beneath her, getting to her knees on the mattress. This time the color had drained completely from her face. "Oh, shit. I left notes in Rachel and Brittany's lockers too. They're gonna think—"

"I already talked to them. Sue told me to give them a heads-up. They know you're okay." Quinn had called to warn the girls about the notes first thing that morning. It was particularly difficult convincing Brittany not to come rushing over, but when Quinn explained how tired Santana was, the blonde agreed to wait till after school. Some of it had been selfishness on Quinn's part. All of it, probably. She wanted Santana to herself for this discussion. Brittany would cling and fuss, not comprehending that Santana needed space; Rachel would offer sage advice that sort of made you wish you could punch her in the face for being so right. At present, neither would be helpful. "They still wanna have the sleepover tonight. I didn't know if you'd be up to it, but I figured they could at least stop by to see you after school. They're worried."

Santana had settled back on her heels, looking vaguely relieved. A second later, she shot to her knees again. "My parents. I forgot to call them."

"Did it. I talked to your mom. Told her you'd had a bad day and asked if it was all right for you to hang out at my house. She said yeah."

Sinking down to the mattress, Santana hunched forward and stretched her legs out under the blanket. Forehead resting in her hand, she murmured, "Thank God." Then, craning her neck to the side, she massaged the exposed curve, her features twisted in discomfort. "She was probably glad I didn't come home."

"Actually, she sounded sad. Like she was about to cry," Quinn said, rising from the chair and moving over to the bed. She waited until Santana glanced up and nodded at her questioning look before taking a seat. Gesturing for the girl to turn, Quinn slid in next to her, one leg draped off the mattress, the other tucked inward. She left proximity up to Santana, who nestled sideways into the bend, keeping her back to the room instead of Quinn. Head lowered, she watched Quinn from the corner of her eye for a moment, then swept her hair aside. A few dark strands were tangled in the strap that crossed her shoulder, and she hissed when Quinn freed them.

"Shit. Sorry," Quinn whispered, cringing.

"She really sounded that upset?"

"Well... yeah," Quinn said reluctantly. Applying gentle pressure, she slid her palm back and forth over Santana's shoulder a few times, letting her get used to the contact. Next, as the tension beneath her hand eased away, she gave an experimental squeeze with just her fingertips. When that proved acceptable, she continued kneading up and down the slope of shoulder, her grasp no firmer than if she were testing the softness of a peach. "Did something happen with you guys?"

"You could say that." Santana sighed and relaxed some more, head tilted at a slight angle. She was quiet for a while, her index finger tracing the Skelanimal on the knee of Quinn's fleece pajama bottoms. Her voice was barely audible when she went on, "I got into it with her and my dad last night. Or the night before, I guess. Whenever. But I acted like a total mega-bitch. The stuff I said was awful. My dad walked out. And my mom..." She took a shuddering breath. "I was so mean to her, Quinn. I yelled at her and threw a wine bottle. It came really close to hitting her. I didn't even mean to do it. Think I'm going crazy."

Realizing she had paused to listen, Quinn resumed the massage and chanced a soothing stroke across Santana's back with the other hand. During chats at school, Santana's strained relationship with her parents had been a frequent topic—and one that Quinn had difficulty responding to. She'd never resolved things with her own parents; how was she supposed to counsel someone else about theirs? Maybe having Rachel around to dispense her pearls of wisdom wouldn't have been such a bad idea after all.

"You're not going crazy," Quinn said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Everyone wants to throw a wine bottle at their mom at some point. You just took it a step further."

Santana acknowledged the wry humor with a sniff, but her brow was knitted into a pained expression. Quinn bit her tongue, mentally kicking herself for the stupid comment. The Skanks might have provided her with an array of new skills, but tact wasn't one of them. Good thing she hadn't always been such a snarky wise-ass. Setting aside her tough girl persona for the time being, she focused on working her thumbs into the hard little knot she'd discovered near Santana's shoulder blade. She studied the girl's profile, gauging which touch felt best by the reaction to each. When Santana's eyelashes fluttered shut, a tiny groan escaping her parted lips, Quinn rubbed the spot in a circular motion for several moments more. "Was that what made you try to kill yourself? The fight?" she asked gently.

Eyes still closed, Santana lolled her head in what may or may not have been a nod. "And everything else," she said after a while. "My life is a mess, and I just keep screwing it up even more. I feel like all the shit that's happened is my fault. I've made so many mistakes. Maybe if I hadn't been such a bitch and a slut before, the guys would've left me alone. Or at least they'd be getting punished for what they did. And now my parents are miserable all the time. I thought they'd be better off without having me around to fuck up their lives too. I just feel so..." She shrugged helplessly and turned to Quinn with tears glistening in her eyes. "Worthless."

Quinn's heart gave a sharp twinge, as if one of Sheila's switchblades had been jammed into her chest and twisted by a vicious hand. Months of pretending to be aloof didn't make holding back her emotions any easier now, but she kept it together as best she could for Santana's sake. She hadn't known how deeply affected Santana was by the malicious talk surrounding her reputation. In the past, the girl had treated the titles "bitch" and "slut" almost like they were compliments. And in the past, Quinn had called Santana both names behind her back and—more than once—to her face.

There went that knife again.

"Okay, first off," Quinn said in the most authoritative tone she could muster, "none of this is your fault. None of it. I don't care what those guys said to you then or what kind of bullshit they're spreading now, you didn't cause this. That's just an excuse they're using to get away with being a bunch of lowlife rapists. You could've been the biggest virgin on the planet, and they'd still find ways to blame you, because that's what rapists do. Look at what Lee did to you and Rachel..." Another wave of guilt came crashing in as the words left her mouth. Since the slumber party at Berry's, she had tried to change Santana's mind about keeping the choir room incident a secret—but not hard enough. Truth be told, she didn't want Rachel to be seen as the more reliable friend. She had let the subject go to save face, like some fourth grader who wanted to be the favorite. Anything to be number one. Same old Quinn.

She forced the thoughts aside, her voice strengthened by the effort. "Did either of you do anything to provoke that? No, but he took advantage of you both because you were there. And he and those assholes would've done the same thing to Rachel or me or any other girl they'd gotten their hands on that night. Because they're scum." While she spoke, her palm glided over Santana's back, the heel lightly rubbing out kinks as it found them. She went no lower than the waist, no higher than between the shoulder blades.

"And second," she said, walking her fingers in place on a stubborn spot near the girl's spine, "Everyone makes mistakes. We're in high school—we're dumb. We're _supposed_ to make mistakes. And, honey, no offense but you haven't pulled half as much shit as me. I've been just as mean as you ever were, except I did it wearing an innocent little smile and a gold cross around my neck. I cheated on, like, every guy I was with. I got pregnant, lied my ass off about who the father was, and gave the baby up for adoption. Now my mom considers me a tattooed freak like the one my dad cheated with. Do you think I'm worthless?"

Santana glanced up as if she'd been caught off guard by a unexpected turn in a captivating tale. Weeks of anxiety, fatigue and poor appetite had given her an anemic look, but her chestnut-brown eyes shone brighter than ever. They were wider than usual, enhanced by the dark remnants of yesterday's makeup, and momentarily seemed capable of penetrating the surface, seeing what lay beyond. "No," she said in a resolute whisper, shaking her head with conviction.

Warmed by the response, Quinn couldn't help flushing with pleasure, her features softening into a tender smile. She reached up to stroke Santana's hair, running her fingers through the choppy layers and watching as the heavier ones drifted fluidly back into place, the finer ones clinging to her skin by static electricity. "Then there's no way you are, either," she said, and leaned in for emphasis. "So, don't let me ever hear you call yourself that anymore. Capiche?"

Santana gave a faint snort of laughter, and it sounded genuine. "Yeah."

"As for your parents. They're unhappy because what you went through is horrible, and it hurts them too. Which means they love you." Quinn's hand paused behind Santana's head, fingers gently flexing in time with each word of the latter sentence. She brought if forward again and continued sifting through silky strands, the movement accompanied by a scent of Lucky Strikes and cinnamon shampoo. "Take it from someone whose parents kicked her out of the house and whose dad ran out on her: the problem only gets worse when you don't stay and work through it. Your parents would be devastated if they lost you. It'd probably destroy them, and that would be way worse than anything you could do by sticking around."

Gaze growing distant, Santana rested her head against Quinn's palm. Slowly, she nodded.

"Besides that, I'd miss you too much if you were gone, you big dope," Quinn said affectionately, grazing her thumb back and forth on the girl's temple.

"You would?"

"Mm-hmm. You said it yourself." Quinn stretched out her leg, big toe pointing at the desk where Santana's note resided. "We've done everything together these past few years. Without you, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. And who knows what we'll come up with next. Could be something... incredible. But we _both _have to be here for it."

"I guess that means you kinda need me, huh?" Santana said with a small, lopsided smirk.

"Oh, definitely. We're connected now." Sliding her hand lower, Quinn brushed her thumb along the silver ring in Santana's bottom lip, then tilted down and traced the corresponding scar in her top lip. They were close enough for Quinn to feel a warm breath from the girl's mouth on her own. Her eyes flickered over to Santana's, searching for even the slightest hint of misgiving. Finding none, she pressed a feather-light kiss to the still upturned corner of Santana's mouth. She lingered only a moment, not wanting to seem like she expected any reciprocation. For the most part, it was a harmless and platonic kiss she could have given anyone, ranging from friend to relative. So why were her cheeks turning approximately the same shade of pink as the wallpaper she had covered in the most demonic-looking posters she could find?

She sat back and gave Santana a nervous, tight-lipped smile, jiggling her foot until she realized it was shaking the bed. The lengthy silence that followed did nothing to calm the butterflies in her stomach. She was beginning to think she had made a huge mistake, especially since Santana hadn't moved a muscle and kept right on staring at her with that hard to read expression. Not quite happy, not quite sad. Something nameless in between, which trembled into life like a candle flame and would have been just as easy to extinguish. Quinn withdrew her hand and let it sink into her lap, careful not to disturb whatever it was she had awakened. When she started to apologize, Santana cut her off with a signal to move over; obediently, she made room as the girl turned and settled in next her. Santana lay back against the pillows and looked up expectantly for Quinn to do the same. Then she guided Quinn's arm under her head and nestled into the space below, fitting their bodies snugly together. Face to face on the same pillow, they gazed at each other for a long time without speaking.

Finally, Santana murmured, "It might take a while."

Quinn's heart gave an eager little flutter, her breath catching. She hoped that meant what she thought it did. Otherwise she really was about to make a fool of herself. "I'm in no rush," she said in her softest voice—a soothing tone she could have used to comfort a child, if she had one. Santana cuddled closer yet, nuzzling at the shoulder she rested on and allowing Quinn to drape the other arm around her in a loose embrace. It was the most contact Santana had permitted so far, and more intimate than Quinn had been with anyone in months. She felt her insides rapidly turning to mush; but before all that hardness she had built up through a rigorous course of summer extracurriculars—every disgusting cigarette smoked, every hash brownie baked, every spray paint can emptied onto the side of public property—could be shot to hell by the pretty girl in her arms, she had a serious matter to discuss: "Promise me one thing, though."

Santana peered up through a thicket of dark eyelashes when Quinn tapped her under the chin.

"Promise me you won't ever try to hurt yourself again," Quinn said, sounding like the bossy old cheerleading captain who had once reveled in ordering around her fellow Cheerios—especially Santana. She didn't care how it came out, as long as it got through to the girl.

And Santana did nod in agreement.

However, Quinn was not satisfied. "No, you have to say it. Look me in the eye and swear to God."

Santana heaved a testy little sigh, but when she followed the instructions, her expression and her voice were sincere. "I swear to God."

"Now swear on my life. And say the whole thing." Quinn knew she was pushing it. She didn't even believe in the superstition of swearing on someone's life. But if Santana didn't mean what she said, Quinn was convinced she would be able to tell.

After another much lighter sigh, Santana started to oblige. Before she could get the words out, her bottom lip began to quiver. It took a few attempts for her to get control of her shaky voice and look up at Quinn with tear-filled eyes. "I swear on your life that I won't try to hurt myself again," she said in a tremulous whisper. And the very next moment, her resolve crumbled.

Quinn held her tight as she cried.


End file.
